


A Multitude of Casualties

by lazarus_girl



Category: Faking It (TV 2014)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-19
Updated: 2016-04-15
Packaged: 2018-05-27 14:47:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 35,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6288724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazarus_girl/pseuds/lazarus_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of Amy’s return to Austin, Karma has to deal with the fallout of their summer separation. Time and distance has changed everything between them, but one party, one argument, and one catastrophic mistake mean things are never quite the same again.</p><p>
  <i>“Love is more than just a word.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Denial

**Author's Note:**

> Follows canon right up until the end of 2B, but draws elements from 3x01, deviating thereafter. I’ve had this idea for a really long time, but it didn’t really come together until the first teaser with a taste of Karmy’s argument was released. It gave me everything I needed to start this story, and I’ve worked really hard to bring it to life. Everything I write means something to me, but this means more than most. It should become clear why that is. Title from/inspired by the The Hold Steady song of the same name. Huge shout-out to @spasticandviolent for helping me out with this, encouraging me to keep writing it when I got a serious case of writer’s remorse, and for undertaking the mammoth task of editing it for me. You’re awesome.
> 
> Fair warning: this is dark, this is heavy, I understand if that’s not for everyone. In many ways it’s Amy’s version of '[My Way Home is Through You](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4824179/chapters/11047760).’ I’ll also state now that I’m not a doctor, but I’ve tried to make this as medically accurate as possible with @spasticandviolent’s help and a lot of medical TV dramas. This is a story about a particular experience, and where it overlaps with my own life, I’ve used that. For me, this is about what love really means and what it means to love someone. It’s about how love is changed, how love is tested, and how it can outlast anything. The story is structured around Elisabeth Kübler-Ross’ '[Stages of Grief](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/K%C3%BCbler-Ross_model)' model. That structure is important, but don’t let it mislead you in regard to content. If you read this to the end, it’ll become clear why I chose to use it. I hope so anyway.

_“Sometimes I think of you and I feel giddy. Memory makes me lightheaded, drunk on champagne._  
_All the things we did. And if anyone has said this was the price I would have agreed to pay it._  
_That surprises me; that with the hurt and the mess comes a shift of recognition._  
_It was worth it. Love is worth it.”_  
– Jeanette Winterson, _Written on the Body_.

***

This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening.

A few hours ago, everything was fine. Well, that’s not true. Everything _wasn’t_ fine, because Amy’s back, and she just wanted to put the summer and everything that happened behind you and go back to being friends. She’s grown, she’s changed, she’s over you. She’s had experiences, and met people you don’t even know, and she’s different because of it. You don’t know her anymore, how could you be friends? So, you pretended to be fine. You pretended you weren’t angry and didn’t feel completely abandoned because she just _fucking_ left. She turned her back on you. She turned her back on your friendship, just like that. All because you couldn’t say that stupid, drunken kiss meant anything.

It was fine, because it wasn’t this _hell_.

You’d give anything to rewind a few hours and do this day over. Why couldn’t you just say that kiss _had_ meant something? What’s so hard, what’s so difficult? What the _fuck_ would it have mattered? You wish you’d fought harder. You wish you’d fought your way onto that rust bucket bus and tried to explain. Maybe you could’ve worked things out. Maybe you would’ve finally had the courage to say ‘Amy, I don’t know what it meant, and it terrifies me.’ But, not knowing is the worst kind of knowing, so you said ‘I can’t.’ Those two words set everything else in motion. Those two words led you to awkward silences and even more awkward conversations, pulling apart your group of friends and making them all choose because you and Amy were suddenly at war. Suddenly, you had all this anger, this … _hatred,_ and it had nowhere to go. It built up and built up until you couldn’t breathe anymore.

You had to let it out, and you did. Publicly and loudly at Shane’s school kick off party, with countless witnesses. You didn’t calm down or rein yourself in when Shane got between you and tried to diffuse things. You didn’t listen when he said maybe you shouldn’t be talking about all this stuff here and now. But that’s the point, you see, you _needed_ to talk about it, because all you’ve ever done is _not_ talk. You talked under it, and over it, and around it because of Liam, your parents and the bust, Amy’s mom and Amy’s dad, Lauren, and _fucking_ Reagan. And then, she left. Amy left and had this life-altering summer without you.

All you had was Shane, both of you trying to stave off boredom. You bonded over cute boys, screaming at kids about running and dive bombing, practicing rounds of CPR on Annie the creepy plastic doll, drinking shitty wine coolers, and gatecrashing his family barbecues. It filled the time, and you’re glad for Shane’s company – he’s a good friend now, something you never thought you’d say – but it wasn’t enough. There was an Amy shaped hole in your life that you couldn’t fill. Not with parties and shopping trips; not flirting with college boys and making out with cute delivery boys; not the most perfect summer fling ever with the most beautiful boy you’ve ever seen could fill it. Even nights sneaking into clubs with Shane using a terrible fake ID to get fawned over by sweet, hot gay boys wasn’t enough to.

Only Amy could, and as soon as she was there, right in front of you, all you wanted to do was squeeze her to death, say how happy you were to see her, and you’d go to Counter Cafe for their blueberry pancakes to catch up, and you’d throw her the best belated eighteenth birthday party ever to make up for the fact that she wasn’t here. Except, you didn’t do any of that. You hugged her, but didn’t really mean it. You got jealous when she held court with Lauren, Shane, and Felix over lunch at Counter, showing off her photographs. You talked, but didn’t really listen when she answered.

Instead, you let your resentment breed, cancerous, until you were standing outside Shane’s house arguing with her, almost screaming, but not quite, and getting the deepest satisfaction you’ve ever felt from hurting her, twisting the knife she stuck in you months before. It’s easy to hurt her, you know exactly what to say to each other to pack the hardest punch and make the most damage. She destroyed you. Now you’d destroy her. Fair. In the middle of it all, this horrendous little rant, you told her if she wanted things to stay the same, she shouldn’t have left. A low blow, but not the lowest. Everything was just spewing from your mouth, and once you started you couldn’t stop. Amy stood silent, just taking it, because that’s what she does. She endures, she suffers because of you, and you take, and take, and take until … there’s nothing left over for herself.

_“Honestly, Amy, I can’t even look at you because you just expect me to be fine with how things are.”_

_“You left because of a stupid fucking kiss! I was drunk, I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing. You were just there.”_

_“I’m sorry I can’t be who you want me to be, Amy. I really am, but it’s suffocating me. You have all these feelings and expectations, and it’s too much.”_

Then, she wasn’t silent, she was angry, _so_ angry. With tears streaming down her face, she said it was your fault she felt this way. She said she wished you’d never faked it, because it ruined everything. You’d ruined _her_ because a part of her would always love you in a way you never could. And then, you said it. You said the worst thing ever, voice cracking, tears rolling down your cheeks.

_“You can’t force me to love you, Amy. I can’t help what I don’t feel. We should just … I don’t think we can be friends anymore. I can’t be around you.”_

It wasn’t, ‘I never want to see you again,’ but it might as well have been.

At least she knew the truth now, she said. You wouldn’t have to see her again. She was transferring to Baldwin High and moving in with her dad. It was over now. That was it. Some invisible cord had been cut, and you felt it happen. There was no blood, but the pain was real enough.

She wouldn’t be in your life anymore. With that, she turned away, and started to walk down the street, and you watched her leave. Again. Frozen to the spot until you couldn’t see her through your tears.

You wish you could take it all back now. You didn’t even mean it.

She’s your best friend in the world, and you don’t care if she likes girls, or if she likes boys, or if she likes you. It doesn’t matter. All you really wanted to say was that you missed her to the point that it hurt; that she made you feel a different kind of hurt altogether because she left, and you need to figure out how to forgive her, but you can’t _not_ forgive her. You have to do it because you love her, so completely, so deeply, so unlike anyone else in your life. That the love you feel for her makes you confused. You’re so _tired_ of being confused and not knowing – that’s another kind of hurt that’s even less easy to explain. But, you didn’t say any of it.

If you’d been braver, you wouldn’t be where you are now, in the family room at UMC Brackenridge with Shane and Lauren, just watching and waiting for anyone to come in and say that Amy’s going to be OK. You’ve prayed to Vishnu and everyone else you could think of, even Gods you don’t believe in, for that to be true. You’re staring at the floor, worrying the balled up tissue in your hand, because it’s hard to make eye-contact with the other families in here, watching and waiting too, the silence punctuated only by tears, whispers, and the brief interruptions of doctors with updates. Good and bad. The tension and the desperation is suffocating. You’re in a strange little club that no one wants to be a member of.

Ever since you got here, your phone hasn’t stopped going off with texts from your mom, Felix, and even Liam to ask what’s happening. That’s how bad this is, Liam is texting you for news. Liam never texts you about anything anymore. Farrah said you could stay, that you were family too, and you felt like such a fraud, and so unworthy of her unexpected kindness. You felt like screaming at the top of your lungs that this was your fault, that you didn’t deserve to stay. But, none of what came before really matters. It’s been hours now, Amy’s been in surgery, and Farrah’s been gone for most of that time, taking with an endless stream of doctors, nurses, and cops. Officer Jenson talked to you too, and you tried tell him everything that happened, but it’s kind of a blur, all jumbled in your head; fuzzy and clear at once. Lauren’s been on the phone, alternating between calling Bruce in Houston, and trying to get hold of Hank even though he’s still en route, flying in from Washington after working all summer in the White House press corps. She’s just trying to keep herself busy. You know she hates hospitals. She hates the noise, she hates the silence, she hates the lingering smell of disinfectant. Her mother died before her eyes, and Lauren spent months in rooms like this. She blurted that reminder out a while ago. You wish she hadn’t. It made the fact Amy might not make it become that bit more real. You don’t want to think about how Hank will feel if it happens and he’s not here. You don’t want to think about it happening _at all_. You could deal with Amy being far away in another state, but Amy someplace else that you can’t really visit except for a grave. All anyone would see and know of Amy is some little epitaph; etched in stone, and there’s no way it could communicate how wonderful, how amazing Amy is? No, you can’t deal with that at all.

You let out pained whimper at the realisation, and Shane wraps his arm around you, pulling you close and kissing your temple.

He’s been glued to your side, holding your hand, stroking your palm with his thumb to calm you because words aren’t any use anymore. He gave you his last sticks of gum to chew on instead of your lip, worrying it to death. You’re wearing his sweater, too big with too long sleeves and smells of his expensive cologne, and he’s just in a t-shirt. It’s such a nice sweater in fact; you could almost forget why you’re wearing it. Except, there’s a splatter of blood on his otherwise pristine white Keds, and you remember. You remember who it belongs to. You remember that it’s Amy’s, and it was all over you and the shirt you were wearing. You remember collapsing into Shane’s arms when they wheeled Amy away at speed with Chris, the EMT, pounding on her chest to get her heart beating again. Once they disappeared from view, all you had was Shane; he was the only thing holding you up. You remember looking down at yourself for the first time and seeing the blood. Shane tried to calm you down, but it didn't work and you freaked out, running into the bathroom, screaming hysterically because you couldn’t stand the sight of it, or the feel of it, or the smell of it. A few seconds after that, you threw up in the nearest sink, because words were even more useless then, pain surging up with no other outlet, and Shane held back your hair and rubbed your back and told you that Amy was strong and she’d be OK. You cried, and cried, and cried, sitting with him in a heap on the floor in that too clean, too brightly lit bathroom.

You had to believe him, just to make it out of there. You need to believe him now, just to make it through this night. Amy _needs_ you.

She can’t die. She _can’t_. Not now. Not like this. Not when there are so many – too many – words you should’ve said, and didn’t, because you always thought you’d have time to say them. You’ve wasted so much time, needlessly and stupidly, with anger, and fear, and pettiness. You want it back. All those minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years – you’d give them to Amy to help her through this. You’d give anything for it. You’d trade places with her in a heartbeat.

The door opens and everyone starts. Your heart is suddenly in your throat when you see a nurse coming right towards where you’re all sitting. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Lauren stiffen, gripping the seat, and Shane’s breath hitches. Instinctively, he squeezes you tighter. You remember her from when you arrived, kind and calm, herding you all into this room, keeping you in tissues and hot sweet tea for the shock. Those cups of tea quickly grew cold while you all waited for Farrah to get here and tried to answer all of Dr Underwood’s questions about Amy’s medical history and her allergies. You don’t remember much of what you said, transfixed on Dr Underwood’s pen going across the page of his notebook.

You can’t look at her face, so you just read her name badge where it sits on her hip: Lucy Ross, RN. You keep re-reading it all the while, like you’re counting beads on a rosary, because you want to hear what she has to say, but at the same time, you can’t hear it.

This is your fault. All of it.

“Hey guys, I just spoke with Mrs Raudenfeld and she thinks,” the nurse pauses, clearly choosing her words carefully. “Amy is out of surgery, and we moved her to Intensive Care.” she begins, and you almost feel the collective sigh of relief between all three of you. “But,” she leans closer, “if you want to see her, you should do it now.”

Lauren lets out this strangled noise and bolts for the door. All you can do is watch.

You turn to Shane and say, “Go, go and see if she’s OK.”

He hovers, uncertain, as if he’s waiting for something else to happen. Then it does.

“She came out of surgery OK, and Dr Davis is pleased,” Lucy continues, gently.

“Is she awake?” he jumps in, asking exactly what you wanted.

“No, she’s not. She came around, but she went downhill fast and slipped into a coma.”

“So you don’t know when she’ll wake up?”

It’s a stupid question.

“I promised Mrs Raudenfeld I’d be honest with you. There’s no easy way to say this, but it’s more a case of _if_ she wakes up, not when,” she puts her hand over yours. “She’s been through a lot. We’re not sure if she’s going to make it through the night.”

“Oh,” is all you reply, and it feels ridiculous.

This whole thing is ridiculous, so strange, so bizarre, it feels like you’re not inside your body. Instead you’re looking down, watching it happening to someone else.

The guy who’s been standing opposite you leaning against the wall bows his head.

“Tell her,” Shane whispers, squeezing you tightly. “Tell her now,” he looks at you pointedly before getting up to find Lauren.

You know what Lucy said, you heard the words, but they don’t matter. Not now. Her mouth is moving, saying more words that you get snatches of, but all you can focus on is what Shane said instead. _Tell her_. He knows now. Maybe he’s always known, but just how much you love Amy, how much you love _being_ with her slipped out during late night conversations after one too many of those crappy wine coolers. You got more trusting, more comfortable – careless – and you’d say that little bit more. He never called you out or pressed you for more information like you thought, and sometimes hoped he would. Instead, you’d both pretend like nothing happened the next day. There was always time to figure it out. You always thought there would be time. Now, there’s no time left. Telling her was meant to be part of the plan when she got back too, but it never worked out. It all got pushed to the back of your mind, feelings tamped down because you didn’t know what to call them. If not now, when?

And then, Lucy says something else, something you can’t help but hear. “I understand if you don’t want to, but I think you’ll regret it if you don’t.”

You nod mutely, knowing that she’s right, following her on autopilot as she leads you out into the hall. It’s busy, and loud, and you stick close to her, gripping the cuffs of your borrowed sweater and hugging yourself. She keeps glancing at you as walk along; eyes kind, face soft.

“Karma, right?” she asks, pushing the button on the elevator.

“Yeah,” you reply, voice crackly and strange. Your throat is still kind of raw from the shouting and screaming. “We’ve known each other since we were five,” you offer, needlessly, and you can feel yourself getting choked up.

She nods, sadly. “I heard a lot about you already,” she comments with a fondness you weren't expecting.

Before you can think about what that means, the elevator arrives, door shuddering open, and she’s directing you into it, pressing the button for the floor. It’s old and slow, and it seems to take forever to get there. When it does, she seems to sense your reticence, and gently nudges you forward.

“This way.”

Everyone she’s passing seems to know her, and you get a lot of sympathetic looks as you tack obediently behind her through what feels like a maze of doors and hallways, with Lucy checking her badge through the swipes. It briefly crosses your mind that you should memorise this route, because you’ll never remember it when you come to visit tomorrow, but then you realise tomorrow might not matter. There might not be another visit, or another tomorrow. The thought feels heavy, filling you with panic, chest tightening.

“The machines and tubes look like a lot,” Lucy says as you get closer to another set of doors, “But they’re there to help her and tell us how she’s doing.”

You’re here. At least, that’s what the sign says. INTENSIVE CARE UNIT.

You peer through the glass, seeing Farrah and Hank, with their arms around each other, standing in the middle of a group of doctors, all encircling Amy’s bed. She’s wanted her parents back together for a long time, but not like this. It takes you a while to actually _see_ her because of them and all the tubes and wires. She looks so small, so fragile, and so broken, and you can’t marry it with the girl you’ve known for so long. Amy’s not there. _Your_ Amy’s not there. It’s too much, you can’t do this. You can’t see her like this. You can’t let her go, but you can’t walk away either. The enormity of it all hits you square in the chest, heavy and hard, and you’re crying again, great, wracking sobs. You turn away from the window, colliding with Lucy.

“It’s OK,” she says, placing a gentle, supportive hand on your shoulder. “It’s OK,” she repeats. “Amy’s still there, underneath all that,” she continues, holding your gaze. “Don’t be scared.”

“I know,” you manage between sobs, gulping air. “She’s just … she’s my best friend. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this, we were supposed to be old, and live in houses next door to each other. She didn’t even get to do everything she wanted. How am I supposed to do anything without her?”

It’s such a selfish thought, but you barely survived two months without her, how are you meant to go on for decades and decades without the person who loves you the most and knows you the best? You can live without her, you know that now. You just don’t _want_ to. You won’t. It’s just not going to happen.

Lucy just looks at you, because even she doesn’t have an answer.

“I don’t even know what to say … There are so many things I should’ve told her, and I haven’t.”

That’s a lie. Your head is full of things to say. Hundreds, thousands, millions of things all racing around your head, colliding, so loud you can barely hear yourself think.

Lucy heaves a breath. “Just remember, she _can_ hear you. It’s not a waste. People think it is, but it’s not. Hearing is … Hearing stays,” and then, more solemnly. “Don’t waste time.”

“I love her so much,” you admit, surprised when you do.

“So tell her that,” Lucy replies, like that’s the easiest thing in the world.

Before you can think of arguing, the door opens and the doctors file out. You can’t meet their eyes, and you hover nervously in the doorway, hugging yourself even tighter than before.

“Mr and Mrs Raudenfeld?” Lucy calls carefully, “Karma’s here, your stepdaughter is still downstairs, she’s … she needs some air.”

“Thanks,” Hank replies, speaking for them, coming closer. He’s still dressed in his work clothes, dishevelled from travel, White House pass around his neck. He turns to you with a, “Come in, sweetheart,” beckoning with the same soft voice he used when you were six years old, nursing a scraped knee.

“I’ll check back in a while,” Lucy says, carefully closing the door behind you, sealing the world out.

Farrah doesn’t acknowledge you, staying at Amy’s bedside, stroking her hair that peeks out from the bandages on her head.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt out, not sure what you’re sorry for.

You’re sorry for tonight, everything you’ve done since Amy got back. For when she left for the summer. For the wedding, the ridiculous faking it plot, and every other stupid scheme before that.

His face falls. You’ve never seen him like this before, not even when Amy was sick as a child. “You stayed with her, and took care of her, and did the best you could, when she needed you the most.”

“Anyone would do it,” you counter, feeling unworthy of his praise. He closes the short distance between you, wrapping you in a hug, squeezing tight and briefly kissing you atop the head.

Farrah turns to face you, anger flashing across her features. “I won’t hear this. I just won’t. If it wasn’t for you, Amy wouldn’t have gotten to hospital,” she continues, earnestly.

“She wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for me.”

You want her to yell and scream, you want her to slap you like you think you deserve, but even when you told her about the argument and how upset Amy was, she didn’t go off at you.

“Oh, honey,” she says, with a gentleness you’ve haven’t heard for a long time. “This is _not_ your fault.” It’s enough to make you cry, crumpling in her arms out of sheer relief. “It’s not at all. Amy wouldn’t blame you.”

That’s enough to make you cry harder and cling tighter. She’s been that way with you ever since she found you and Shane on the plastic seats in the ER waiting room –anxious spare parts – and you don’t know why. She said it isn’t your fault countless times tonight, you believe her even less than you did before. No matter what happens, you’ll always blame yourself for this, and you’ll always be right to.

“Farrah, why don’t we get some coffee, take a breather?” Hank suggests when your tears subside.

When Farrah lets you go, you miss the contact already. For a few moments, everything feels fractionally less horrible.

He’s not exactly subtle, but the time for subtlety is over.

“Hank, I don’t want to leave her,” she replies, motioning to the bed.

He just gives her this look you can’t really read, embellishing it with a “Honey, come on,” that reminds you so much of Amy it hurts. “Karma’s here.”

“Fine,” she relents. “Will you be OK?” she asks.

“We’ll be fine,” you assure, needlessly. “I won’t leave her alone.”

She hates being alone. She hates hospitals. She hates needles. She’d hate all these machines and the ventilator; she can barely stand an oxygen mask on her face when she’s recovering from an allergy episode, so you know she’d fight this if she could. Except, no one has any idea when she’ll wake up. _If_ she ever wakes up.

You wait patiently while Hank helps Farrah and picks up his camera bag; terrified of what will happen once they leave. It means you’ll have to face this. You’ll have to look at Amy and talk to her, because there’s no way of avoiding it anymore. As soon as Hank guides Farrah through the door, you puff out a breath, wiping at your face with the cuff of your sweater, leaving inky marks behind from what little remains of your mascara.

All you can hear are the machines, beeping and whirring, keeping Amy alive. They’re deafeningly loud all of a sudden, filling the space her apologetic rambling would usually occupy.

You promised her a long time ago that you’d never be a weeping mess at the side of her bed, keeping vigil, and yet here you are. Times change.

Finally, because you have no other choice, you turn to face her. God, she’s a mess. Your stomach lurches at the sight. Sickened. She’s hooked up to several drips and there’s blood still transfusing. You know she lost a lot, and you have a vague recollection of telling Dr Gibson you’d donate because you’re the same type, the rarest, B negative. You always thought it gave you superpowers because people said it was special. It’d be nice if one of those powers was immortality. You move toward the bed, tentatively reaching out to touch her face, your hand hovering over, scared to touch her. She has cuts and scrapes all over, bruises starting to bloom that you didn’t notice before. Her lip is busted, and there’s a bad cut above her left eye, stitched closed, and a deep, dark bruise around the other eye, like someone punched her. There’s a cast on her right arm, and the blankets are lifted off her left leg to keep the pressure off, but it’s still hidden from view. You think there’s a cast there too, there’s _something_ anyway, because you already know it’s broken in what looked like several places.

“I know you said you wanted us to be alone and talk things over, but this is kind of extreme.”

It’s a weak joke, wildly inappropriate to anyone who doesn’t know you, but you’re trying not to make this a big deal, to not think of this moment as one of the last. You don’t want this to be your last memory of her. You want to remember her smile, her laugh, the joy she takes in telling you a lame joke, the spark in her eyes when she hears songs she loves, or sees something beautiful. That look she wears just for you. Adoring, awe-filled, like you’re the greatest person to exist.

“Fuck, Amy, why didn’t you look where you were going? I called out to you, but you didn’t hear,” your voice cracks then. “And then it was too late.”

It’s difficult not to let in what happened, even though you’re trying your best not to think and not compare the Amy you saw on the asphalt, the Amy in front of you in the bed, and the Amy you’ve always known. If you do that, you’ll lose it in front of her.

It comes back to you in little flashes and fragments, seeming to happen at lightning speed and horrendous slow-motion. You turned your back for what felt like seconds, seeing headlights come around the bend far too fast. You yelled her name, running to close the distance between you, but she’d already stepped off the kerb into the road, not paying attention. You weren’t fast enough. There was a loud screech of brakes, and a dull sickening thud as she hit the windshield, bouncing off it, tossed into the air like a ragdoll, landing feet away, hard. You ran faster and faster to get there, faster than you’ve ever run anywhere, torn between wanting to yank the driver out of the car and going to her. Amy won out and you rushed to her, screaming at the top of your lungs for the guy to help you, for Shane, Lauren, Felix, Liam, anyone to come. There was so much blood, limbs arranged awkwardly at strange angles. You looked the driver right in the face, saw him freaking out, gripping the wheel and then slamming his hands against it, ignoring your pleas. You’ll never forget his face, or the USC snapback, the bumper sticker, or the smell of the fuel and the screeching tires as he left you and Amy there, speeding off.

You leaned close, telling her it would be OK, listening for her breathing, shallow and uneven, feeling for her pulse and finding it barely there. Her eyes were open, somehow, but she wasn’t really _there_. She was trying to talk, trying to move, but you told her not to, stroked her face, yelling out for help a second and third time until you were hoarse. Finally, Shane and Lauren came, Liam and Felix after. You don’t remember what anyone said really, you just remember their faces, ashen in the fading mid-evening light, Shane crouched next to you, Lauren screaming down the phone, Liam and Felix pacing the street, hands on their hands, people piling out from Shane’s house, craning to see. You wanted to scoop her up and take her away so badly, to protect her from all their looking and keep her safe, but you couldn’t. You were terrified of making it worse. 

Just when you thought it couldn’t get worse, it did.

Her eyes weren’t open anymore, and she stopped breathing. Shane realised it at the same time you did, and you saw your own panic mirrored on his face. You thought about the pool and the chlorine, and Annie, and you just went through the motions of it. Shane tilted her head back, cleared her mouth of blood. You just focused on compressions, listening to Shane count them, monotone, checking her pulse after every cycle, breathing for her. The longer it went on, the angrier you got, ignoring how Amy’s chest gave differently to Annie’s. You were caught between screaming at her that she couldn’t do this, she was _not_ going to die, and crying because you knew she might. By the time the street filled with lights and sirens, your arms had grown tired, and Shane switched with you, so you had to do the breathing.

The copperish taste of her blood still lingers in your mouth.

After that, it was just a blur of questions and watching Amy get swamped by Chris and George, the other EMT, as they worked on her, stabilising her on a board and putting a collar on her neck, sticking her with needles and cutting at her clothes. Chris didn’t even have to ask if you wanted to ride in the ambulance, you hopped in without a second thought, nodding at Shane when he promised he’d follow before the doors closed on you. The whole journey, you held Amy’s hand tight and nodded along while Chris said how well you’d done, how you’d saved her life. You didn’t let her hand go until Dr Underwood made you, prying your fingers apart from hers with gentle urgency.

You were terrified you’d never see her again. You still are.

“I’m sorry I’ve been such a bitch to you ever since you came back.”

A strange place to start when you finally let your hand touch her face, her skin, surprised when it’s still as baby soft as you remember.

“I was just so angry I didn’t know what to do.”

You still wait, half expecting her eyes to snap open and respond somehow, but she doesn’t. She’s small, and quieter, and stiller than you’ve ever seen her.

“When I said I couldn’t deal with being around you, I didn’t want to see you like this,” you cry, swiping at your face with your free hand when hot tears spring up. “Fuck, I never wanted this. Never,” you shake your head vehemently even though she can’t see.

“I didn’t want this, because now I’ll never get to understand us. I’ll never get to understand you,” you carefully take her good hand into yours, compelled to find another point of contact, hoping she’ll squeeze back. “There’s so much I want to say, that I need to say,” you sniff back tears, looking up to the ceiling. “I don’t even know if you can hear me.”

It takes you longer than you want to get some control and rein your emotions in. This is hard. This is so incredibly hard. Everything you’ve ever fought for is to keep Amy in your life and hang onto your friendship, to go against what everyone says, and never drift apart. This goes against of all that, violates it, but you only have yourself to blame. You pushed the self-destruct button. You didn’t push her into the path of that stupid fucking frat boy and his Jeep Wrangler, but you might as well have.

“I’m so fucking angry, Amy. This isn’t fair! I can’t believe I have to stand here and try to let you go. I know you’re strong, you’re stronger than they think, and you can do it. You _have_ to. We need to get back to us. We have plans. I can’t go on road trips and sing duets at karaoke bars alone!” your voice gives out then, heavy with emotion.

Amy broke your heart when she left, and you thought you couldn’t feel worse pain. You were wrong, you _can_ feel worse pain, and she didn’t break your heart.

It’s breaking now. Shattering, splintering in your chest.

“I need you here with me. You can’t leave me. You can’t! You’re my best friend. My soulmate.”

You can barely see her through your tears. “I love you. So much. So _so_ much. Never think I didn’t.”

Love. The word doesn’t sound enough. You bend to kiss her forehead, screwing your eyes closed, letting it linger because _god_ , you need her to know. You need her to feel it. You can’t help it, but you cry then, really cry, tears soaking into her hospital gown as you try to hug her awkwardly, until your face is buried in her shoulder. She doesn’t feel like Amy anymore. She doesn’t have that Amy smell; her sweet, light perfume long since faded. The gown is scratchy, and though the body inside it is still warm, it’s not the same, because her arms don’t wrap around you, and there’s no soft words to comfort you like they always have. There’s nothing except the whirring and beeping of machines. She’s here, but she’s not _here_.

If it happens, if she dies with you in this room tonight, it’s not like when she left for the summer, where that void and the pain was temporary. It’s the kind of leaving that’s permanent, that you can never change and never get over, you just have to endure; a hellishness that becomes a part of you, like breathing.

You’re not letting that happen. You’re just not. No matter what those doctors say or her parents say, you’re not giving up on her. Ever. You said you’d fight for her once, you’d fight for your friendship, and you’ll do it now. You’ll do everything it takes.

That’s enough to get you to stand, looking her in the face when you say, “We’re gonna do this, Amy. Just you and me.” You’re loud, bold, defiant, steeling yourself, renewed all of a sudden. “We’re gonna get through this night, and the next. You hear me? I’ll be here every night for as long as I need to.”

You reach back, pulling the chair behind you closer to the bed, placing her good hand in both of yours, squeezing to emphasise the point. If they want you to let Amy go, they’ll have to take her from you, and you’ll kick and scream and dig in your heels. You’ll never walk away without a fight again, and you have enough to fight for the both of you.

Love is more than just a word.


	2. Anger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Karma struggles to balance the pressures of home and school while trying to cope with the fact that Amy’s condition could be permanent. 
> 
> _“Be careful what you wish for.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For general story notes see [chapter one](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6288724/chapters/14410576). Your feedback on this so far has been both humbling and heartening. Thank you for taking this leap of faith with me. This journey won’t always be easy, but I hope it's rewarding.

You don’t believe in miracles. Not anymore.

Not even on a day like this, when the sky is clear, bluer than you’ve ever seen it, and everything feels crisp and clear, teetering on the brink of fall. You used to love days like this, sitting on the grass at school with Amy, soaking up the sun. Except, you don’t love it, because you’re not sunning yourself on the quad while she reads Anne Sexton to you, musing over the brilliance of the lines. You’re not with her because you’re with Shane, sitting on a bench in the hospital grounds, picking at pre-packaged, dry sandwiches and nursing cold coffee, trying to avoid talking about the fact that Amy isn’t with you. She’s still three floors up on the ICU, yet to wake up.

When that’s still true, how can miracles exist? How can your mother’s prayers make any difference? How can anyone’s make any difference?

It’s been ten – no, eleven now – torturous days. There’s no medical reason why she should still be as she is. She’s had time to rest, Dr Davis says her scans ‘look good,’ and the bleed in her brain isn’t ‘an issue now.’ But, still, she’s the same, eyes closed, motionless. _Sleeping Beauty_. You wish it were a fairytale, because then all it would take is some potion, or true love’s kiss, to get her to open her eyes, and she’d be perfectly fine. It’s not a fairytale, she’s _not_ fine and she won’t be for a long time, and you’re so _fucking_ angry this happened to her.

The shuttling between home, school, and the hospital is starting to wear on you. Everything but sitting on that chair next to her bed seems pointless and ridiculous. Sleeping and eating are wastes of time. You don’t care about school, how many tardy notes you have, or how late your assignments are. On the rare moments you’ve sat down to work, all you can think of is Amy, wondering about Lucy and her night nurse Cal, and how they’re taking care of her because they don’t know her like you do. You know her ticklish spots, and that she has a scar on back of her left knee from when she fell from the top of the slide in first grade. You know she doesn’t have an appendix, or tonsils, and that she gets hay fever all through summer. You know she gets a brain freeze when she drinks cold water. You know she can’t sleep alone, or with the lights off.

It’s little things that keep you awake, staring at the ceiling, waiting, wondering, and worrying about her.

You haven’t made it back home often, but even when you do, you don’t sleep, terrified in case you miss a call from Farrah or Hank to tell you she’s woken up or … other things you don’t dare think about. Like hoping she’s not in pain, suffering silently. Like where her soul is now, because you’re not sure it’s in her body, and your mother’s talk of “spiritual planes” gives you a headache. Like if you lose her, if she dies today, tomorrow, or some other day, that she slips away quietly, because you couldn’t stand it any other way. Like if the last memory you have of your friendship is yelling and crying before you cut the cord that severed it. Like if the only image you can keep of Amy in your mind is of that battered, broken girl on the asphalt.

If she could, she’d kick, and scream, and fight her way back to you. Knowing that makes the silence and the stillness in that room all the more deafening. You hate it. You hate that she’s like this, and she’d hate it too, because you can see all the plans she had about senior year and beyond disappearing, fading into nothingness, and it’s not fair. It sounds so naive, and so petulant to say that, but it’s true. Why couldn’t he have hit a cat or a dog, or that fucking evil bitch Becky Edelstein who terrorised you in middle school? Why Amy? Why your sweet, smart, amazing Amy? Why now? You shouldn’t wish ill on other people, you’re sending bad karma – ha fucking ha – into the universe, but that’s the way you feel.

You keep going back and forth between the deepest sadness you’ve ever felt and the deepest anger you’ve ever felt, cycling in some weird feedback loop. You’ll never forgive that guy for what he’s done. You’ll never forgive yourself either. All this waiting has given you time to think, and you’ve quickly found thinking is a dangerous pursuit. Thinking lets you double back over all your rights, and your wrongs, and inbetweens, so you can figure out what you should (or shouldn’t) have said and done. Thinking makes you close off and turn inward, examining yourself for faults. There are many.

You thought this was hell. You were wrong, it’s purgatory.

You wonder if this is grief; this heavy molasses feeling you’re fighting against daily that makes your bones heavy and your heart heavier still. Grief for what came before. Grief for who Amy was before, and who you were before, because everyone and everything has shifted, reconfigured slightly, like twisting a Rubik’s cube. Amy is the centre of your universe. She always has been, you think, but now you’re not alone in believing it.

“Are you OK?” Shane asks, finally breaking the silence.

“Spectacular,” you reply, deadpan.

You know he’s wanted to ask that ever since you bailed from Miss Kelsey’s math class after she asked you to come solve the problem and you just didn’t _care_ to stand there and do it. You solved the equation in two seconds and threw the marker at her when she scolded you for not showing your method. Fuck her method. Fuck her class. Fuck _everything_. And you told her that, right to her face. Math is fucking stupid, and no one gives a shit about algebra and she could put you in detention until the end of the school year. You don’t care. Nothing stopped you from leaving, not her yelling and her threats of punishment, not the staring and the whispering, because everyone knows now and all you get is weird looks, or sympathetic looks, or they don’t look at you at all because they don’t know what to say. Nothing. So, you got your bag and marched out, slamming the door off its hinges. Shane chased after you, but you didn’t hear him call out. You were so angry at Kelsey and everyone and everything you almost hit him in the face when he reached out to slow you down.

“ _Karma_ ... ”

And there it is. He says your name differently now, it has a certain tone, and he can’t hide the edge of panic in the sound.

“Please stop asking. I’m fine, OK?” you snap, immediately regretting it. “Don’t worry about me, worry about Amy.”

He moves closer to you, putting his coffee down on the ground between you. “But I do, Karma. You’re not sleeping well, you’re not eating well, you went off on Kelsey today,” he sighs deeply. “And then you had that flip out. I don’t like seeing you like this.”

Flip out. It sounds so cute when he says it like that. You have a flip out when the colours run in the washer and ruin your favourite shirt. You have a flip out when it rains and ruins your perfectly styled hair. You have a flip out when your heel breaks, or your mascara runs, or your nail polish chips. What happened in the hallway was something else entirely.

You just needed to be anywhere but at school. You needed to see Amy, and he drove you here without question. There was only one stop, by your locker to get some things you’d bought for Amy that you didn’t want anyone else to see. It was then you saw it. A shrine of flowers, and notes, and those fake battery-powered tealights flickering around Amy’s locker, with a cropped version of your homecoming picture at its centre. The sight of it made you _ill_ , filled you with such rage that you couldn’t breathe, you couldn’t see anything. You wanted it gone. Every nauseating, maudlin piece of it. You ran at it, drop kicking the arrangements across the hallway, stamping out every one of those fake tealights, swinging wildly at Shane every time he tried to grab you and stop you from tearing the whole school down. In the end, he managed it, keeping hold of you while you kicked and screamed, carrying you all the way to the parking lot, ignoring everyone who came out to see what was going on.

They were acting like she was dead already, and they were making a spectacle out of mourning her. You know they were only trying to be kind, to understand it, but it was the final straw. They had no idea what it’s been like. The attention will die down, like it always does, they’ll find someone else to talk about, and she’ll just be a column in the school newspaper, a picture on memorial page in the yearbook, a name on a scholarship that kids who go to Hester years from now will have no idea about.

You have to stop thinking like that. You can’t give up on her. You won’t.

“When I say I’m fine, Shane,” you glower. “I mean I’m fine. I’m not the one lying up there in that bed, am I?” your voice gives out, betraying you, and you swat angrily at the tears that unexpectedly spring up.

“No,” he says softly, wrapping his arms around you, “but you can’t carry on like this. You’re gonna make yourself sick. What good will you be to her then?” he continues, stroking your hair.

A strangled sob escapes you. He’s right, you know he is, but it doesn’t change the fact that   your best friend is in a coma and she might never, _ever_ wake up, and you have to watch that bright, brilliant girl you love so much fade away. You’re being selfish, you know that. He loves her too. He’s hurting too. Everyone is hurting, but it’s not the same hurt. It’s not as ugly, sharp, and unwieldy as the pain that’s inside of you like some living, breathing thing you want to cut out and kill.

“Amy would be saying the same,” his voice breaks then, and he squeezes you tighter. “I just want to take care of you, because that’s what she’d do.”

You want to push him away, fight against it, hit him, and punch him, and do _anything_ because you can’t stand his kindness. You don’t deserve it. Kindness makes you want give into this. To weep and wail for her until you have nothing left. Until your body is hollow and empty and there’s _nothing_ inside of you, because that’s exactly how you feel. Empty. Instead, you nuzzle into him, sobbing. You don’t know how you have tears left.

“She got into Clement,” you blurt out through your tears, burying your face into his neck.

“What?” he asks, pulling back.

“She got into Clement,” you repeat. “Just like she always wanted,” you gulp in air, fighting back fresh tears.

You turn and reach for your bag, pulling out the packet. It’s already open, cut neatly with an opener this morning. Lauren brought it in with the rest of the mail, solemn, delaying your ride to school. You don’t know when it happened exactly, but you started coming over to catch a ride with her instead of taking the bus or going with Shane. The car ride is silent for the most part, but it’s never uncomfortable. As soon as you saw the Clement crest, you knew Amy had done it. Watching Farrah open it with strange, careful ceremony was strange. Until then, you’d forgotten all about her application. You’d forgotten to check for any of your own coming through, and Farrah was busying herself with the charade of making you and Lauren breakfast she knew you wouldn’t eat. Only her tears, and the sound of the screen door slamming off its hinges as Hank flew outside into the backyard punctuated the thick, stifling silence. This wonderful, joyous news that you’d all been waiting for fell flat, rang hollow. Instead of feeling proud, you feel desperately sad that Amy’s greatest moment has been cruelly taken away from her. You should be celebrating, planning dinners and cake baking, and Amy should be running around screaming at the stop of her lungs with joy, but she’s not. She’s in that room, in that bed, and a machine is breathing for her.

Looking down at the envelope, you carefully take out the letter and pass it to Shane, unsurprised to see the tears in his eyes. You don’t need to watch him read it, you know what it says by heart.

 

_Dear Miss Raudenfeld,_

_Congratulations! On behalf of the Department of Film, Television and Digital Media, it is my great pleasure to inform you that you have been accepted into the Documentary Film Programme. In a year of record application numbers, your portfolio submission and interview feedback was amongst the strongest._

_Your date of admission and programme of study are listed below._

**Level** : _Freshman_. **School** : _Film, Theatre and Television_

**Department:** _Film, Television and Digital Media_

**Major:** _Documentary Film_. **Effective Start Date** : _Fall 2017._

_If any of these details are incorrect, or, if you wish to decline or defer your place, please inform us as soon as possible using the contact details provided in this letter._

_Please find enclosed further information regarding the next stage of the application process, course options, campus facilities, and student life here at Clement._

_I look forward to welcoming you in the fall._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Dr Michael de Havilland  
Chair, Department of Film, Television and Digital Media._

 

“Fuck,” Shane breathes with a shake of his head, sniffing back tears as he looks down at the paper before passing it back.

The amount of times you’ve heard him cuss can be counted on one hand with room. It’s another sign things aren’t normal.

You nod sadly. “I know. She worked so hard on her film and editing her portfolio. She fucking aced that interview. She was so happy when she came back.”

Her film made you cry. You didn’t end up sending that silly little spoof viral you made, even though you had a ridiculous amount of fun. Instead, she made this collage film, all about Austin, with found footage from different places mixed in with her own photographs and narration. You’re in a lot of it because of how much time you’d spend together, going to places, talking crap to each other. It’s a love letter of sorts, she told you as much, and it was a shock to see yourself through her eyes, but a revelation to see the way she sees the world. The closing caption says ‘ _La douleur exquise_.’ With the saddest eyes you’ve ever seen, she explained it's rough equivalent in English, calm and matter-of-fact, without agenda, as ‘the pain you feel because of someone you can’t have.’

That knowledge hurt you then. It hurts you tenfold now, because you feel it too.

“I remember,” he says, in this sad little voice, as if he’s referring to something ancient.

If only dealing with the idea of Amy being in New Orleans was your greatest problem now. There was a time when that felt like the end of the world, when you were sat cross-legged on Amy’s bed, surrounded by a pile of clothes helping her to pick out something to wear to her interview while Farrah made sure all the flight arrangements were in place. Now, you wish you hadn’t worried so much and been so selfish.

“Farrah called them and explained.”

Shane lets out a long, heavy, unsteady breath. “Oh.”

It says everything.

“She’ll get there,” he offers, nodding along as he speaks. “She’ll make it out of this, Karma,” he takes your hand in his and squeezes it. “She’s strong.”

Dr de Havilland was on speaker. Telling someone else outside of the family, outside of Austin, made it real. You couldn’t deny and wish it away after that.

You heard the shock and the sadness in his voice as he registered the news. Most of what Farrah said, effortless and polite, went over your head, but her opening sentence managed to stick because it sounded like such a neat, pleasant euphemism for what actually happened.

_“I’m afraid Amy’s been in an accident. She’s not well at all.”_

Maybe that’s the only way Farrah can deal with it, by eliding the coma, and broken bones, and the brain bleeds because it all sounds serious and impossible. It’s another kind of denial.

Of everyone Amy met over the course of her interviews, Dr de Havilland was her favourite. He said he’d hold the place for as long as he could, that she would be welcome whenever she was well enough. It was a nice gesture, a genuine one, but everyone in on that call knew it was ultimately an empty one. If she wakes up, no, when, Amy will be a different Amy. Dr Davis and Dr Bryant have said as much in their long, complicated discussions with Farrah and Hank that you can barely follow along with.

You don’t feel eighteen anymore. This has put decades on all of you. Hank is smoking again, and he hasn’t done that since college before Farrah got pregnant with Amy. You sit with him a lot in the backyard on the swings you used to play on as little girls. It shouldn’t be, but the smoke is kind of comforting; heady and sweet because of the brand, you can’t help but think the way it drifts and curls is kind of beautiful. Beautiful and deadly. You don’t really talk much, you just keep each other company in silence, trying not to reminisce too much, but it’s hard when he has his wallet out, and a tiny Amy is staring back at you.

When you do talk, it's about her. He talks about when she was first born and how he was terrified of dropping or breaking her. How he’d flinch every time she cried. How he felt like he wasn’t a good enough father to her. He talks about when they lived in Corpus Christi when she was a toddler, and he worked on Amy’s grandfather’s ranch overlooking the lake. When they arrived in Austin and Amy met, they immediately invited you to the ranch that summer.

Sometimes you talk about that first summer together, remembering how happy you were, and for a while, you could forget. You could forget how much time had passed and how far away you were from those little girls, running around in the fields hand-in-hand, helping to groom the horses, making daisy chains, cloud watching surrounded by the sweet heady scent of Amy’s grandmother’s tuberoses.

You’re glad they’re not here to see her like this.

When you dream, you dream of those summers. If Amy’s dreaming now, wherever she is, you hope she’s dreaming of Corpus Christi and the tuberoses. You hope those dreams don’t shatter and shift like yours, so the girl chasing you in the fields is bloody and broken, screaming at you for help.

You shake off the thought, shuddering, busying yourself with putting Amy’s Clement packet away, checking that you have everything before you go back up with Shane to give her parents a break. The teddy with the sling you found online peeks out at you, smiling benignly. It felt like a good idea at the time, something to comfort her, and remind her that you’re there when you can’t be, but now it just seems silly. You almost throw it out when Shane’s hand closes over yours and stops you.

“It’s cute, she’d like it,” he says softly. “She loves anything you buy.”

“Do you think it’s gonna help?” you ask, holding up Amy’s iPod. It’s old now, but you loaded it up with all her favourite songs as a replacement for her phone since it got smashed beyond all recognition in her jeans pocket.

“Lucy said a lot of patients respond to it. Can’t hurt, Karma.”

He’s not wrong. You’ll try just about anything to help her, no matter how ridiculous it might seem. Lucy’s told you about what’s worked for different patients she’s cared for and how seeing and hearing familiar things is important. You’ve read up on sound, so you try and find things to talk about, keep her in the loop, even when that something is reading from _TMZ_ or _E!_ Shane resorts to that when his phone battery is low from playing too much video and he’s run out of school gossip, or finished bitching to her about his mom and his sisters, or swooning over that hot guy who lives across the street from him that they’re all obsessed with because of his guyliner and toothpaste commercial smile.

Sometimes, even he runs out of things to say.

“Unless it’s fifty-five Taylor Swift songs, then she might wake up just to punch you!”

Despite yourself, you laugh a little along with him. It feel strange to joke at a time like this, but it releases some of the tension you’ve been feeling.

“Probably,” you nod, putting the iPod back in your bag for safekeeping. “Good thing I made it a little more varied.”

It’s pretty good, even if you do say so yourself. You went through Amy’s iTunes and raided the stacks of CDs and vinyl she has to make the best collection you could, throwing in some Mary Lambert and Hayley Kiyoko, Tegan and Sara, Warpaint, Wolf Alice, Years & Years, and some Glass Animals in amongst the Taylor Swift and Kacey Musgraves stuff. Oh, and there’s even some One Direction just for fun. You can almost see her rolling her eyes, but singing along – just a little off key – anyway.

Everything’s packed now. You’re ready, but you’re not.

“Shall we go up?” he asks, tentative.

“I think we should, see if she’s OK.”

He nods, like it’s perfectly normal to be doing this. Like you’ll walk in to find Amy off the ventilator, sitting up watching trashy TV and eating one of the flower cookies with smiley faces your mother made that Shane keeps stealing every time he goes to look out the window. She won’t though, because there’s been no phone call from Farrah to tell you about change, giddy and breathless on the line because Amy’s come back to you all. There’s nothing. Nothing, you’ve come to loathe that word, quickly followed by the words ‘stable,’ ‘consistent,’ and ‘no change.’ You’ve heard them so many times they’re starting to lose meaning, like hearing a word in a foreign language that you don’t know the meaning of. It’s just a sound, a placeholder, swallowing up space for effect.

Truthfully, you’re tense. Hank and Farrah are in some kind of conference right now with Dr Davis and Dr Bryant and the director of the unit, Dr De Luca. It seems more of a big deal than all the other stuff you’ve eavesdropped on lately, keeping hold of Amy’s hand all the while, stroking it to soothe her; to give her something to anchor her back in the real world and pull her from … elsewhere. Shane had to practically drag you out of there, even though Lucy suggested you get some air. It felt wrong to intrude, and most of it went over your heads anyway. You wish someone would explain it in a way you could understand. Googling is proving to be a total waste of time, just flagging up worse case scenarios or stories of miracle recoveries. The last thing you can see Amy finding comfort in is God. She’s the most lapsed Christian you know.

You tidy up what remains of your lunch and throw it in the trash, taking Shane’s hand when he offers it. The first time he did it, it felt strange because the only other person you’ve held hands with is Amy (the two seconds with Liam doesn’t count because he hated it). You feel comfortable being so tactile now, protected almost, like he’s keeping you from running in the opposite direction too far too fast. Just knowing he’s next to you sometimes means everything.

“God, I hope it all went OK,” he says, while you’re waiting for the elevator. He jabs at the button, impatient.

It’s the first time he’s expressed any kind of nerves or doubt about her progress. Until now, he’s been Mr Positive, pulling you back from the brink of despair and curtailing you when your very vivid imagination runs wild with dark possibilities. You don’t like that he’s starting to lose faith, but you do like that he’s starting to be more honest with you and less nauseatingly optimistic. It means he trusts you and you can confide in each other, and that hasn’t always been the case.

“Me too,” you admit quietly, tightening your grip on your backpack. “Me too.”

The elevator seems to take even longer than it did that first time with Lucy, and even though you know you’ll get no signal now, you hold your phone anyway, watching the coverage bars diminish. Shane just looks at himself reflected in the silvery interior and restyles his hair for the millionth time, in case he sees Cal or the ‘cute radiographer guy’ who came to take x-rays of Amy’s leg a few days ago to make sure everything was pinned in the right place and hadn’t shifted. He’s being ridiculous, and just doing it to distract himself, but it’s halfway to normal and it means not everything is completely fucked up.

“What?” he asks, flushing when you catch him mid-styling.

You smile a little and squeeze his hand. “ _You_.”

“I want to have good hair when Amy wakes up, she’ll expect no less,” he argues. _When_. You like that he said when and not if. “We have standards, you and I.”

“Of course,” you rely, with a knowing look.

“C’mere,” he wags a finger, beckoning you closer.

Then, he’s primping and fluffing your hair, and you’re suddenly self-conscious. You can’t say it’s been high on your list of priorities lately, preferring to put it into a ponytail or not do anything at all. It won’t exactly be a high priority for Amy either, but you don’t want to look a complete mess. You don’t need her to know you’re barely hanging on and very close to falling to pieces. Whatever that really means.

When you step out of the elevator close behind Shane, you walk right into Dr Underwood. Literally. He looks different out of his scrubs, like a walking ad for Ralph Lauren, carrying a leather messenger bag full of paperwork. He looks much prettier, and much younger than you remember him being.

Your “Oh, I’m so sorry!” comes out at the same as his bright, sunny, “Karma!”

“Dr Underwood!” you declare needlessly and he smiles.

“Will is fine. I’m off duty now. I know, it’s kinda like seeing a superhero out of their costume. Kinda ruins the myth!” he jokes. “You look better than when I last saw you,” he continues, warmly. That night feels like a long time ago. Another lifetime. “How’s Amy doing?”

You sigh heavily.

His “Uh-huh,” speaks volumes. “What’s up?”

“They’re not really telling us anything,” Shane jumps in, speaking for the both of you. He does that a lot now.

“I just …” you tail off, unsure how to approach this, because really, Lucy does try to include you and fill the many gaps in your knowledge. You don’t want to speak ill of her. “Would you, could you come and look at her. I don’t know what the notes mean,” you pause to correct yourself, “we don’t know and we’re tired of being in the dark. She’s ... “

Shane overlaps. “She means a lot to us.”

Dr Underwood looks around, checking who might be listening. “I shouldn’t really do this because Amy’s not my patient anymore, but I asked Dr Gibson if I could keep tabs on her case. A special interest they call it. That’s the one thing I hate about ER medicine, you never get to see it out.”

You remember Dr Gibson. Mostly you remember her shouting for gauges of this, and shots of that, and asking for a thousand tests in weird acronyms at terrifying speed, but when she did speak to you, like Dr Underwood – Will – she was patient and kind, but honest with you, not sugarcoating things, something lacking with everyone who isn’t Lucy. They keep telling you Amy’s going to be fine, but you and Shane both know that’s complete bullshit. She’s not fine. Fine is in another solar system. She’ll take time to get there, if at all. It’s infuriating, just another thing to add to the ever-expanding list of things that are slowly driving you insane and make you do crazy shit like flip out at Miss Kelsey and destroy perfect nice, well-intended shrines. Usually, you’re not allowed to get that angry, because Amy talks you down, or sometimes hauls you out of the situation, just like Shane did, picking you up and dragging you away for you own good. Except, she can’t do either right now, and it shows.

“So that’s a yes?”

“It’s a yes,” he confirms.

The three of you take the same bob and weave route you did with Lucy. Every so often, Will looks around to check nearby rooms. You know he’s kind of taking a risk here, but you appreciate it.

“Look who I found,” he says, pointing to you with a grand sweep when you reach the Nurse’s Station.

Besides Lucy, there are three other nurses on the desk. Lindsey waves while she waits on hold, Deanna gives a warm smile when she looks up from her huge stack of notes. The older, surlier nurse, Brenda, doesn’t even acknowledge you at all. She’s rubbed you the wrong way ever since she called you ‘Amy’s little friend Carmen.’ You aren’t her little friend, because you’re not _fucking_ eight – you look like an eight–year-old sometimes, but that’s besides the point – and it’s Karma, _not_ Carmen. Thank you.

“Amy will be pleased to see you,” Lucy says, and your heart leaps for a second until you remember she’s just being nice and no miracles have occurred. “Her parents are still in with the doctors,” she continues, motioning toward Amy’s room. “So she’s all on her own. Think she could do with your company.”

Shane races ahead, making a grand entrance, greeting her with his typical loudness. You hang back, curious about the hushed conversation Lucy and Will are now having. He leans close to her, touching her forearm every so often. It looks like the whisper-shout arguments you and Amy used to have about what was or wasn’t the right way to behave in public back when you were faking. Lucy’s trying to look stern and keep her distance, arms folded, hugging what you assume are Amy’s now lengthy medical notes. Then, you hear Will call her ‘Luce’ at the end of his sentence, and she can barely hide her smile. Amy used to look at you like that.

The memory makes your heart lurch, but in the worst way. You’re beginning to forget what that smile looks like, what her voice sounds like, how many shades of green there are in her eyes because it’s so long since they’ve been open.

Lucy swats him then, seeming to relent, and he turns back to you, holding up the file triumphantly.

“OK, let's do this before Dr Doom – Dr De Luca – comes back and fires me.”

You laugh a little, tacking behind him. He’d have to go through Amy’s parents first, that’s not likely to happen. He was the first and the kindest face you all saw on that hellish night. You’re pretty sure you could rally the Hester populous if he got fired. They love to protest after all.

Even though he doesn’t need to, he knocks on the door. Through sheer force of habit, you wait your turn for the antibacterial gel, wanting to make sure she won’t get sick because of you. Shane is talking away relating today’s edition of Vashti’s blog, typically animated, perched on the end of Amy’s bed, a safe distance from her bad leg. He always does that, as if the chair is too far away and can never be as close as he wants. You tune him out because you’ve heard this already in the car on the way over.

Will motions for you to sit in one of the extra chairs in the corner of the room, setting down his bag. You copy him, scooting the chair closer when he opens the file. He flicks a lot of pages quickly, doubling back, frowning a lot before going forward again.

“Well,” he begins, “they took off the bandages today, and the stitches are out. From what I can see, the wound looks great, so that’s good.” You nod, relieved. “Head stuff can be tricky, but any time you cut your skin is really,” he informs you, cocking his head in Amy’s direction.

You didn’t even notice her bandages were gone. Of course, now you look up and you see there’s dried blood in her hair and you just want to brush it out or clean it, because the sight of it is making you feel nauseous.

“And the leg,” he pulls out an x-ray film from another packet at the back of the file, and holds it up to the light from the window. At this, Shane moves from the bed to join you, a hand on your shoulder, supportive. “Wow.”

“What?” you crane to see the film, trying to figure out what he’s seeing. All you do see is a plate and lots of pins that means there’s more metal than bone there now. It’s kind of terrifying.

“Oh, erm, sorry, it’s just a really nice job.” he replies, apologetic. “We look for the alignment to be good, as close as we can get it to how it’s meant to be, but it was a bad break,” he continues, indicating various points on the x-ray with faint dark lines. “Breaks.”

“How bad?” you venture, not really knowing why you’re asking because you don’t want the answer.

“ _Bad,_ bad. I’ve only seen this a few times. It takes a lot of rehab to get back from it,” your face falls. “But if anyone can do it, I know Amy can. She’s strong.”

There’s that word again, _strong_.

He takes out another x-ray. It’s her arm this time, and looks equally impressed. It has a similar arrangement of pins.

“She sure is,” Shane says, and you nod, glancing over at her. “You’re the bionic woman now, Aims, you’re gonna set off all the security scanners at school,” he laughs weakly.

“Honestly, with that blood loss, and those injuries,” Will pauses, clearly wanting to be careful and soften the edges of it all. You grip the arms of the chair, half knowing what he’s thinking. “She shouldn’t be here. We thought the prognosis, sadly, wasn’t great.”

You let out a whimper and he flinches. Shane reaches down, patting your hand and you look up at him, teetering on the brink of tears.

“But, I’m glad to be …” he tails off suddenly, leaning forward, staring intently at Amy. “ … Proven ... ” he stands up slowly, distracted, looking at the monitor next to Amy’s bed. The numbers are different, rising, you think the bleeping is faster than before. “Wrong.”

“What is it?” you leap to your feet, following him.

“Nothing’s wrong,” he assures, glancing over at you. “Shane, push the button on the wall,” he instructs calmly.

You hear Shane mumble flustered “OK’s” rushing to slam his hand against the orange button on the wall, setting off an alarm – a loud, jarring, blaring that you haven’t got used to even though it’s been pushed many times in your presence.

It’s bad. It’s always bad. Lucy bursts in, now in her street clothes just like Will. Lindsey follows just as fast.

“Page Dr De Luca. Now!” Will says, with a forcefulness he’s never spoken to you with. “Find Mr and Mrs Raudenfeld!”

And then, you see it, finally, belatedly, Amy’s eyelashes, fluttering just a little. She’s starting to come around. Shane is at your side suddenly, his arm around you, squeezing tight, so tight it almost hurts. Lucy and Will flank either side of the bed, and Lindsey rushes back out. You’re torn between watching and turning away from it, Shane shielding you, because it’s not like TV where someone blinks prettily and everyone is all smiles. Will and Lucy aren’t smiling. Your heart is beating out of your chest and you can’t breathe all of a sudden. Their words to Amy, comforting her as she starts to thrash and flail go over your heads. You can barely see her through your tears, streaming down your cheeks unbidden. She’s trying to yank her breathing tube out with her good hand, choking on the very thing that’s been keeping her alive.

“It’s OK, Amy, my name’s Dr Underwood. You’re in the hospital, you’ve been in an accident.”

That choking noise gets louder and louder as Will carefully pulls off the tape that keeps the tube in place, beginning to pull the tube out, saying that same thing to her over and over.

And then, Lucy, softer, stroking Amy’s face, trying to get her to focus somewhere. “We’re here to help you, relax sweetie. Relax. We won’t hurt you.”

Hank and Farrah rush in then, caught between relief and terror, and the bed is swamped. You and Shane stumble back, still clinging to each other. One of you is crying, maybe both. Then, Amy makes eye contact with you as she takes her first gasp of air on her own. She’s looking at you, but she doesn’t really _see_ you, and you have to turn away, burying your face in Shane’s shoulder, because it’s killing you to see her suffer like this. His hand cups the back of your head, shielding you from the horror of it all.

But you can still hear what’s happening, and that’s bad enough.

It’s just like the Clement letter earlier this week. You wanted it to be wonderful and joyous, but it’s not. Not with the alarm blaring, not with Farrah’s terrified “Mama’s here, darlin,” and Hank’s “You’re gonna be OK now, my sweet girl,” ringing just as loudly in your ears. All you can see is how much she’s struggling, how the pain and confusion of what’s happening falls in on her all at once. The look on her face is the same as the one she wore when you finally reached her lying on the asphalt. Here, but not _here_.

You’ve wished for her to wake up, day after day, night after night, you prayed for it, thinking it was all she needed to be. Awake and alive. Thinking that it would be the end of this nightmare, but now you know it isn’t. It’s the start of another one, and you have no idea how to help her wake up from it.

What is it they say? Be careful what you wish for. You just might get it.


	3. Bargaining

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Amy’s condition worsens, Karma is left questioning everything, including herself. 
> 
>  
> 
> _“Right now, Amy is all that matters.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For general story notes see [chapter one](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6288724/chapters/14410576). The kudos, comments and messages about this fic so far have been amazing to see. Thank you so much. This chapter was one of the hardest to write, but also the most important in terms of character development. Without saying too much, I see it as the turning point in the story.

Please let her be OK.

That’s a phrase you’ve said a lot in the last couple of days. The words are starting to lose their meaning. Now you say please let her be OK today, please let her be OK for another hour. Please let her be OK for a minute.

_I wish I may, I wish I might … Have the wish I wish tonight._

A minute. It’s ludicrous; you know it is, but then, not so much. Maybe that’s because minutes seem like a larger unit of time than they did before. Everything has become precious: her every word, her every breath.

They took her away again to surgery – you don’t know when, you’ve kind of lost track of time, because out of nowhere, it was hard for her to breathe. There you were, having a perfectly nice visit, getting toward something like normal sitting on her bed with her watching Netflix when everything went sideways, really, really fast. One minute, you were holding the straw to help her take tentative little sips of vanilla milkshake – the only part of the contraband meal you brought to cheer her up that she could actually have - and the next, you were slamming your hand on that same orange wall buzzer Shane did, because the chest pain she’d had all day and tried to downplay got worse. After that, things get kind of blurry and you got pushed to the side. In came Dr Morgan, she took over, listening to Amy’s chest, ordering Lucy around to get supplies, and trying to do this chest tube thing, and then Lucy was arguing with her but trying not to argue in front of you. As the seconds went by, Amy got more and more panicked.

You tried to rationalise it, keep eye contact with her, watching tears roll silently down her cheeks. It was just like her allergies. It was just like that. The same shallow, rapid wheezing, and it lulled you into thinking she’d be fine soon because you’d gotten her back from that, you carried around the Epi. _You_. It wasn’t like that, not when there was blood spurting out, and she let out the most horrendous scream you’ve ever heard in your life – you never want to hear it again – and she was reaching for you, but you couldn’t reach her. Then, there were more nurses coming in with a gurney, swamping the bed to transfer her when Dr De Luca burst in yelling about “tube placement” and other things you can’t really remember. You weakly tried to assure her everything would be OK as she passed you, face obscured by an oxygen mask, and then she was wheeled away out of your reach. Gone. Just like the nurses, Dr De Luca, and an ashen-faced Dr Morgan. You disliked her immediately because she treated you like a child, dismissed your questions, and didn’t care about Amy at all, not like Lucy and Cal. You had to correct her twice when she got Amy’s name wrong.

Now your dislike – your _hatred_ – has a valid cause.

For the first time in weeks, you couldn’t hear anything. No monitors beeping, no machines whirring. Nothing. Silence. Thick and heavy that descended and enveloped you like a blanket as you stood in the middle of an empty room looking at the empty bed Amy was lying in minutes before. Everywhere you looked there was something for her, or that reminded you of her, left behind by those who loved her. It lends everything this strange, morbid feeling that you can’t quite shake, making you feel dizzy and lightheaded as you grip the foot of the unmade, blood splattered bed.

This is exactly what it would be like if she died.

The ostentatious flower bouquet and the ‘spare’ iPad from Liam would still be there. The helium balloons from Farrah’s colleagues at the network would still be stuck on the ceiling.

The cookie basket from your mom would still be two-thirds eaten by everyone but Amy. The stack of comics on her nightstand that Felix bought for her would still be unread. But, Amy would be gone, and you just _can’t_ imagine it. You’d be alone in this sterile room with no idea what to do, or how to be, or how to carry on in a world without Amy in it. You don’t like thinking about it, but still, the thoughts come, prickly and intrusive. How can things be carrying on while this is happening to Amy? How can the world be turning? How are you breathing? How is everything still here? Why hasn’t it crumbled and imploded in on itself like you feel like doing; making yourself small and hiding in the corner like some perverse game of hide-and-go-seek, except Amy won’t find you. Ever.

All you can do is wait. The powerlessness is terrifying.

You don’t know who to text, or who to call, or even if you should _do_ anything, because you don’t even know what just happened apart from the fact it’s _bad_ and that’s no use at all and would just make things worse for whoever you told. So, you just sit in the same chair you always do, holding the teddy with the sling – a.k.a. Orson – that’s been more of a comfort to Amy than you ever imagined it might be. She didn’t think it was stupid, or silly or childish, she loved it. Correction, she loves it. You squeeze him a little tighter now, wondering when they’ll come to fix up the bed, or even if you should try and help. At least then you wouldn’t feel so useless. It should be a feeling you’re getting used to, but it isn’t. It just makes you angry and frustrated, like Amy’s getting angry and frustrated because she can’t do little simple things like drinking a milkshake, or eating a burger, or wash herself, or dress herself without some kind of help. She hates it when Lucy and the other nurses have to do anything like that. She hates it when you help her even more.

You thought once she was awake everything would be OK again. Her _being_ awake was made into this huge deal, so everyone focussed their energy upon it, but now that she _is_ awake no one really knows what to do or how to treat her, because she’s different. She’s not the Amy you argued with on the sidewalk. She’s not the Amy you met in the ballpit. She’s not the Amy you kissed in the gym surrounded by confetti.

Not yet. Maybe not ever.

No one’s taking it well. Least of all Amy.

Lucy kept telling you that a recovery like Amy’s isn’t about thinking in the longterm, about the path she’s taking, or the journey she’s on. It’s about the minutiae of that journey: of having enough pain relief to be comfortable enough to sleep, of trying food and drinks to see if she can tolerate it, of trying to sit up so she can change position. These aren’t so much steps on the journey, but preparation, training to take them, like someone on a regime before undertaking a marathon or some other huge, arduous physical challenge. Except, she’s not fighting against the elements, or time, or distance, or any of that; she’s fighting against herself, and that’s worse, because you both know what her strengths are, and what her weaknesses are, and how that’ll affect everything else, like dominos falling on a complex, looping run. You try to comfort her and show her she’s making progress, even if that progress seems small and infinitesimal, like managing not to throw up long enough to progress from ice chips and juice to Jell-O, ice cream, and mashed potatoes.

She looked so sad and so bored of it all that you just thought the burger would be a nice thing. An Amy thing. You don’t want her to think you’ve stopped seeing her, like her parents, and your parents, and the kids at school who wrote horrible, generic platitudes in the get well cards they sent that line the windowsill. The burger was soft enough, you thought, but it was too much for her to digest, and somehow that information, that failure, made her sadder.

Maybe you shouldn’t be around when she gets back? She needs rest.

Farrah keeps telling you not to tire Amy out, and you know she hides things from you and tells you she’s not in pain when she clearly is. Sometimes you wonder if you’re doing more harm than good by sticking around. This is your fault, after all. If you hadn’t argued with her and upset her like you did, she wouldn’t have left the party like that, and she wouldn’t have gotten hit. You haven’t really talked about that. Instead, you’ve filled her in on what happened while she was in her coma, tag-teaming with Shane to fill her in on school gossip and TV show spoilers, just to ease her back into the real world and lessen her confusion about the time she’s lost while she was sleeping. That’s what Farrah’s making you all call it, _sleep_ , like it was something she did willingly and overslept for eleven days, not had a bunch of surgeries that resulted in her being put in a medically-induced coma to give her a chance at survival.

Clement, however, hasn’t come into the equation during any of that real world talk. Again, Farrah’s strong-armed you into an unholy pact of silence on that front and took the packet back. She’s just protecting Amy, she says. On some level, you can understand it, because she’s dealing with so much right now and you don’t want to add to it, but when it eventually comes out, you know Amy will resent you for going along with it and keeping it a secret. It won’t matter that it was done under duress, with the best of intentions. She has to be better before she’s allowed to see the packet, know she got accepted, and that Farrah deferred the application. You’re not sure when better will be – it sounds like some far off destination – and even then, deferring only gives her a year. They’re that desperate to keep her, they’ve set up special circumstances on her application so she can pretty much take up a place whenever she’s well enough. Something tells you that when Farrah does tell Amy the truth she’ll conveniently leave out that last part. She’ll never let Amy out of her sight now, it’ll be back to the suffocate and smother routine she had when Amy was little. Forever fighting off some cough, cold, or other ailment, she was rarely allowed out to play. Until your mom proved she could cook meals that were totally peanut free, she wasn’t even allowed to stay over. The freedom she fought for, and the dream she’s chased for so long are all gone. Something else that asshole and his shitty driving took away from her.

No matter how long it takes, you’ll see this through with her, and make sure she gets that freedom back, even if it means you end up deferring too. Your own Clement letter came three days after Amy’s in the same big packet. It sits on your kitchen table, unopened, and it’ll stay that way for the foreseeable future. You have no interest in what it says, or in upping and leaving her when she needs you most. College can wait, you can go any time. You’re not going without her. That’s not what you had planned.

You hear a soft “Hey,” and a light tapping on the already open door, and you look up, startled.

It’s Lucy, her scrubs shirt changed, because she got sprayed with the most blood.

You’re not sure how long you’ve been sitting there, staring at Orson in your hands, turning everything over, but she looks worried. She must think you’re some kind of fucking space cadet.

“Hi,” you reply. Your voice sounds rough and strange. Like it’s not yours. “Is she OK?” you blurt out, jumping to your feet, Orson cast aside on the chair. “Was it my fault? Was it the milkshake?” you add, hurriedly.

You know it’s stupid to think that, but you can’t help it. All the pain Amy’s ever gone through has been your fault.

It’ll make no difference if you’re standing closer to her when she tells you, but standing up is somehow better than sitting down. It makes you think of that guy in the family room when Lucy came to get you on the night of Amy’s accident, and you briefly wonder what happened to him and the person he was waiting to hear news about.

“She’s going to be fine, absolutely fine,” she assures, crossing over the threshold. “No, it wasn’t your fault, honey. It wasn’t the milkshake. She wasn’t well. She got worse. You just happened to be there when she took that turn is all.”

You let out a long breath of relief, shoulders sagging. That strange, dizzy feeling is back, blood roaring in your ears. Out of nowhere, tears blindside you, and she catches hold of you right before you crumple into a heap. You really wish Shane were here right now, but Jackie made him stay home to rest, between being there for Amy and being there for you, he hasn’t had a lot of time to take care of himself. But, Shane’s not here, so you crumple into her instead, clinging on and crying big, fat, ugly tears, burying your face in her scrub top.

She lets you cry, wrapping you in a hug. It feels weird because it’s someone you don’t know really well – except you feel like you do, because you’ve seen her so much – not like Amy, Shane, Lauren, or Hank, but it’s a comfort you need; a comfort you’re craving. You need someone to care about you and recognise your pain, just for a second, even if you do go to great lengths to hide it. Amy’s always the one to comfort you when you’re hurting, asking what to do so that hurt will stop.

“Sorry I left you here alone,” she continues apologetic. “That was,” a soft sigh escapes her. “That wasn’t meant to happen like that, I’m sorry you had to see it.”

You believe her. She squeezes you a little harder at that, and it feels like genuine care and affection, not just because it’s her job.

“I’m sorry Amy had to go through it,” you get out, between sobs.

There it is again, that scream – primal and plaintive, a desperate cry – echoing around your head.

Wrapped up in all the tears and the sadness, there’s a bitterness in your tone that’s surprising, but then not. You puff out a breath, steadying yourself. That’s it now. Your crying is done for now. A chink in your otherwise impervious armour. You’ve already made a point of not crying in front of Amy, so you do it where no one can see: in bed at the dead of night, while the shower is running, in your dad’s beat-up car in the garage while it’s raining. Camouflaging your grief from the rest of the world, because the time for being shocked and sad is elapsing. You have to put on a united front and line up with the rest of Amy’s cheer squad, to keep her spirits up so she can carry on with whatever comes next in her recovery.

A few weeks ago, a scene like you witnessed today would’ve sent you running for the bathroom, or had you cowering in the corner. Now it’s just routine, one horror heaped on top of another. You’re not sure how to feel about the fact that you’ve gotten strangely desensitised so quickly, or maybe you’re just numb to it and the full force of what you _should_ be feeling right now – panic, fear, disgust and everything in between – will hit you in some dim hour of the morning, or you’ll wake up screaming from a nightmare that runs along the same lines. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Lucy’s smart, stepping back and offering you a tissue from the box on Amy’s nightstand. She knows not to crowd you like Shane and everyone else does, giving you the space to think and breathe. You’re grateful.

“Look, I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be in here right now. You need a break.”

“I’m fine.”

“I keep hearing that, Karma, but you don’t look fine.”

Your head snaps up at that. Mostly because you’re surprised she said it, that and the fact you realise you haven’t looked in a mirror in the last week at roughly the same time.

“It’s not your job to worry about me.”

“Actually,” she looks at you pointedly. “It is. You might not have been injured in that accident, but you saw it,” she reminds you. “You brought her back, you and Shane. You’ve been here for longer than all your other friends,” then, lower, softer. “That takes its toll, believe me, I know.”

You nod, sadly, looking down at the floor, swatting at fresh tears that fall unannounced.

“Amy’s worried about you, and so am I.”

Your immediate instinct is to laugh. Why is she worried about you? You’re not the one with the broken bones and the broken body that will take months to heal. There’s nothing wrong with you. Nothing at all. You’re _fine_. Perfectly fine. You have to keep telling yourself that. All you need to do is make it from one day to the next. One day more is another day Amy can improve, that she can be well enough to leave this floor, and eventually, the hospital. If you put yourself first and stop thinking of Amy – of ways you can make things easier, less painful, and bring her a little happiness – you’ll fall to pieces, forced to think of yourself, think about what happened, and how much your heart hurts when you’re without her (and sometimes when you’re with her too).

“Typical Amy.”

“What do you say we get some coffee or whatever? I’m due for a break and I could do with a buddy.”

“But what if Amy gets back and I’m gone? She’ll be worried,” you jump in panicked.

You don’t want to leave her here alone. It’s all on you today. Lauren’s at home taking care of Farrah because she’s exhausted, just as exhausted as you are.

“It’s just a floor down,” she assures. “They’re not bringing her back up for another twenty minutes or so, Dr De Luca wants to make sure the tube is in place and she’s on the right pain meds. We’ll be back in time. I promise.”

You shrug, relenting, because you’re too tired to really argue. It’s been a while since you got a full night’s sleep, and all your mom’s homeopathic remedies aren’t really working for you. They gave Amy Ambien a few times, but she’s tongued it, you’re giving serious thought to snagging it, so you can just drop and sleep like you used to. Before this. Before feelings. Before everything.

“Housekeeping has to come in anyway and clean the room. As great as you are at being my little support crew, you can’t do everything you know,” she smiles, giving you a little push to move you forward and out the door.

Helping her with little things, like fetching water for Amy, fluffing her pillows and fixing her blankets, and feeding her the little she manages to eat makes you feel useful. It’s a good distraction, but you know a lot of people just think it’s about doing penance and appeasing your guilt. It’s not. Not anymore. Maybe it was that for a few days, when Amy was in her coma and there was nothing else to do so you’d jump at any possible opportunity to be useful – bringing lunch for whoever was visiting, picking out the right clothes for Farrah to bring along, reading anything and everything you could find to Amy in the hope it would stir her to wakefulness. In the end, you pinned all your hopes on _Mrs Dalloway_ and turned Amy’s room upside down to find her copy of it, highlighted, underlined, dogeared, and perfectly her.

You spot the ladies with the cleaning equipment hovering just across the hallway, and you wonder how long they’ve been there and what they’ve heard. Then you decide it doesn’t matter because it’s not important. You have a lot to talk to Amy about, but now’s not the right time. There never really _is_ a right time. That’s why you ended up arguing in the first place, because you let it build and build until the weight of it got too heavy to carry. If it was too heavy weeks ago, it’s crushing you now.

“I can’t vouch for the coffee, but the company will be pretty good.”

Lucy’s relentlessly warm and kind, and you don’t know how she does it. You’ve lost count of the amount of times she’s said you’d be a good nurse someday. That’s possible, and lately, you’ve been giving it serious thought, but you’d never be as altruistic as her. You’re doing this out of love, not the compassionate duty Lucy and the rest of the staff are. She’s still guiding you, still filling the silences you can’t. This time, you don’t take the elevator, you take the stairs, following behind her, only just able to keep up because she moves so quickly, smiling and giving little waves to the people who pass her. You skim your hand over the rail, just to anchor yourself. It always feels like you’re in this strange limbo when Amy is in surgery. Neither here nor there. It’s a much smaller procedure than her other ones, you know that, but you can’t help thinking of what Will said and how everything's a risk. That’s his job you guess, to calculate whether the risk is worth it. You’ve been doing a lot of calculating against a lot of risks lately.

Even though it’s late evening now, the cafe is still pretty busy and the line at the counter is long. Still, it’s the good kind of busy. The kind where people talk and share their food. You could almost forget where you are and what happens on the other floors. It has atmosphere and feels far away from the silence and sterility, the medicines and treatments and surgeries. You guess that’s why she brought you here, directing you to a corner table by a window. Amy would love it. You wish she was well enough to come down. Maybe she can someday soon. Maybe you could wheel her down here for a vanilla latte or something. People watching is her thing. If she was here you’d make up silly little stories about who they are, where they live, what they do. You’ll get back to that, wasting days in The Brew n’ Chew with Amy stretched out on the couch in the corner like she owns it.

“Let me guess, chai latte right?” she points before motioning toward the long menu board. You nod, oddly pleased she remembered. Either that or she’s cleared away so many empty cups that she can’t help _but_ know. “It always takes me forever to choose. I have choice fatigue. Will usually makes me toss a coin.”

As soon as she says Will’s name, she flinches with something like dread, flushing suddenly.

“Dr Underwood?” you ask, sliding into the seat, already knowing the answer.

You’ve seen them together, seen how attentive he is with her in a different way to you and the other doctors and nurses here.

“You’re not meant to know that,” she holds up a finger to her lips. “So, don’t go spreading it around, OK?”

It’s the world's worst kept secret, but you nod anyway. She looks mad at herself for letting it slip, but it gives you a sudden boost. You can’t wait to tell Amy and Shane - he lives for gossip like this, and he was certain something was going on. Amy’s just a sucker for romance. So are you.

“Your secret’s safe with me,” you reply, conspiratorial.

“It’s just complicated,” she offers, like her privacy somehow needs explaining.

A peal of laughter escapes at that. “Oh, I know a lot about complicated.”

“That feels like a double-shot espresso and a chocolate muffin kind of story,” she comments with a wry smile.

All you can think while you watch her standing in line talking with Lindsey is that a double vodka might be a better idea if she’s going to hear your story. As long as she doesn’t mind hearing the mother of all high school dramas. You have no idea where to start, or if you should at all. You don’t really _do_ talking about your feelings, which is odd, given you’re the product of new age hippies who have preached love and understanding at you from the moment you were born – the miracle child, the ultimate expression of their commitment and love. Ironically, save Amy, not many people love and understand you. Your parents don’t, Zen doesn’t, Liam never really did, and you never really have.

By the time she gets back you’re already pondering what to tell her and what to leave out. In hindsight, the fact that you’ve rejected Amy twice – intentionally or not –makes you sound a grade A bitch. It sure is complicated.

“One chai,” she smiles, sliding it towards you. “It’s on me.”

“Thanks,” it comes out a little shy, like your being here is something that shouldn’t be happening.

She’s bending the rules a little, but not so much they won’t bounce back. Honestly, the attention is nice. You like her, and she clearly cares about Amy, and that’s pretty much all you need right now, that, and chai. You take a sip even though it's still ridiculously hot. The aromatic, comforting sweetness hits you all at once. It’s perfect.

“You’re very welcome,” she says, pulling out the chair closest to you.

“Sorry if I embarrassed you before,” you offer, after a moment, playing with the lid of your cup, strangely nervous.

“Oh, God, no!” she waves a hand dismissively. “We’re just private people. I don’t really go in for hospital gossip believe it or not. It’s a _lot_ like high school in here, except the hours are longer and you get way less holidays.”

You smirk. So she would be OK with the tragic mess that has been the journey from sophomore to senior year. There are some things you’d change, like the whole ‘sexy secret affair’ bullshit with Liam, because it wasn’t that secret, or, ultimately, that sexy. You’d change turning Amy down, or at least let her down a little more gently, because at least then she wouldn’t have gotten drunk out of her mind and slept with him. It still gets to you that she wasted her first time like that. She deserves better, so do you. You’d change letting her walk away, leaving Austin for the summer. But, even now, you can’t find it in you to want to change faking it. Even though it hurt you both so much, there were moments that were real for you, and you know there were for Amy too. She’s an amazing kisser. Probably the best you’ve ever kissed, and that’s a huge part of your problem. You’re still trying to figure out what loving her means and what it is now compared to what it was when you were five, running around with her at recess. The only conclusion you’ve really drawn is that it’s deeper, and better, and _more_ , but you don’t what to do with that in concrete terms. That’s the other part of your problem.

“Did you always know?” you blurt out, quite forgetting there are meant to be boundaries.

This isn’t The Brew N’ Chew, and you’re not talking to Shane about cute boys.

“Karma, I …” she tails off, trying to find the right words. “I don’t really think we should talk about me here,” there’s a slight edge to her voice. You’ve overstepped.

“I’m sorry, I just,” you take a breath, hoping for some kind of clarity between the in and the out. “I have a lot of stuff on my mind.”

She nods, sympathetic. “I figured,” then, you sense a shift, and she leans closer. “Off record? Yes, I always knew. Despite the fact that he was a huge dork and could barely say two words to me without having a heart attack for the first couple of weeks after he arrived.”

“The timing sucks.”

You didn’t mean to say that out loud.

“Amy?” she asks, looking at you over the top of the tiny espresso cup.

All she said is her name, that you’ve heard thousands of times before, but the rise in her voice that turns into a question makes your head snap up, heart in your throat suddenly.

“It’s … I don’t know,” you backtrack, pushing your drink away. “You don’t need to hear all this. I don’t know why I want to tell you, I don’t know what I want to say. It was stupid.”

You’re aware of everyone in that cafe all of a sudden, and that they might be listening to everything you’re saying. It’s too much, too public an arena. You’ve spent too much of the last month fighting to keep your emotions from coming to the surface and failing miserably. Now here you are, talking to a stranger about things Amy should be told first.

“It’s not stupid,” she implores. “I’ve seen you with her.”

“And what do you see?” you ask, trying to sound neutral and unaffected by her observation, but hearing the fear in your voice all the same.

If you can’t do it now then when? Amy almost died. Yes, you told her you loved her during that last ditch hail mary of a visit, but you haven’t really said anything about it since. In fact, you’ve consciously ignored it, capitalising on the fact she probably never heard you or can’t remember (or both).

“I see,” she’s talking in that same soft voice she used with you in the family room, “someone who cares,” a long pause, “someone who loves Amy deeply, and that shouldn’t be something you question, or something you hide.”

“But,” you start, your voice tiny, thin and cracking. “I don’t know what it means.”

She places a hand over yours. “That doesn’t matter. Not now. Not here. I’ve seen too many people who regret not saying things, or not doing things. Don’t waste what you have. I know how easily it can be taken away.”

“She makes me happy,” you admit, blinking to keep yourself from crying. “I can’t think about my life without her in it. I _can’t_.”

“So you already know what it means, and it doesn’t matter what I, or anyone else, thinks about that.” Another pause, and she looks at you, long and meaningful before saying, “you’re exactly what she needs right now.”

You nod, slowly, mutely. It sounds so simple when she says it like that, so uncomplicated, and maybe she’s right. Maybe you should stop thinking about labels and what other people might think, and go with what you want, selfishly and unashamedly for the first time in your life. To love her in the way she’s always wanted and deserved. To love her without hesitation, or thought, or consequence. To love her like you know you can.

“And that’s my expert, medical opinion,” she smiles warmly, breaking open the muffin and sliding half toward you, along with a napkin.

And there it is. Out there. Somehow, the world is still turning. Somehow, you’re still breathing. It feels like some of that weight you’ve been carrying has lifted. That muffin half gets stuffed into your mouth faster than is polite, and Lucy laughs, holding up her own half in a strange sort of toast.

“Could we go see her now?” you get out, between chewing.

She glances down at her watch, checking. “I think so, she should be back.”

You don’t have to be told twice. The rest of your latte goes in one huge gulp and you’re gone, weaving through the tables toward the exit. It seems wrong to run in a hospital, but you do anyway, offering up apologies as you try to get back up to Amy’s room in the fastest time possible. Now, Lucy’s the one following you. On the stairwell right before Amy’s floor, you stall, waiting for her to catch up.

“Thank you,” you say, breathlessly, pulling her into a hug. “Thank you so much.”

She’s stiff in your arms at first, caught off guard. “I didn’t do anything special. I just told it as I see it,” she comments, shrugging.

“You did,” you admit, in a small voice. It’s enough.

She swipes you into the unit with her ID card, and you have to slow down to a brisk walk, hating that Amy’s room is all the way at the end now, instead of at the Nurse’s Station. You’re dimly aware of Brenda asking where Lucy has been, typically cold. You don’t want her to get into trouble, but you can’t think of anything much beyond Amy right now, high on adrenaline and anticipation. You hover by the door, peering through the glass. She’s there. You swallow hard and take a steadying breath to look in again. She’s sleeping, in a fresh gown with Orson at her side. The long line of the chest tube snakes out from a different, higher point than before. She’s OK. Everything will be OK now.

“Try not tire her out, OK?’ Lucy says, suddenly appearing at your side.

“OK,” you nod. “Can I stay a little? She doesn’t like be alone.”

“Fine, just be careful,” she looks around just in case anyone is eavesdropping. “No more Netflix, she needs to rest. She’s been through a lot today. You both have.”

That’s the understatement of the century.

Tentatively, you open the door. The whooshing suction from your breaking the seal wakes her, and you feel bad. You expected Lucy to follow you in and check on Amy like she always does, but this time, you’re alone.

“I thought you left,” Amy says, sleepy and weak.

“Of course not! I’d never leave without saying goodbye. I was so worried about you.”

You know how difficult it is for her to raise her voice, so you rush to her out of habit and instinct, hovering near her bed.

“I’m fine now. New tube,” she smiles a little, pointing to the new chamber the tube leads into.

There she goes again, playing things down and making a collapsed _fucking_ lung seem like nothing. There’s no blood, thank god, just a water level, and you have some vague recollection about needing to watch for air bubbles, but you’re not focussing there, not right now.

Her throat is still raw from all the coughing and the tubes, and it’s painful for her to speak, so she’s resorting to writing things down in a little notebook, but that doesn’t work so well when she’s tired and it's hard to read anyway, because she’s trying to do it with her left hand.

“Visiting’s over,” she reminds you, wincing when she swallows, sheets crinkling crisply with every tiny move she makes.

“Amy, what did Lucy say about not talking too much?”

She frowns, swatting at you with her good hand, missing you entirely.

“Aims, I’m just gonna go OK? It’s late, you’re tired.”

You look around for your bag, seeing it’s moved to the opposite corner of the room. You cross to retrieve it. Briefly, you sneak a look at your phone screen, seeing the screen full of messages and missed call notifications. Most of them are from your mom and Shane, but there are a few from Lauren too. You’ll deal with it later.

She tries to lift her head to look at you better, “How are you gonna get home?”

“Amy,” you warn, shushing her with a finger to her lips as a reminder. “I’ll take the bus or something, don’t worry.”

That’s kind of a lie; you don’t think you have anything over ten bucks on you right now, so even though you'd rather take a cab, the bus is your only option. Truthfully, not even sure you have enough for that fare either, but she doesn’t need to know that. She’s got bigger issues to deal with. It’s only twenty minutes or so anyway. You travel on the Manor/Riverside route all the time, and since it’ll be stupid o’clock, it won’t even be that busy.

She tries to reply, but ends up forced to clear her throat instead. When she tries to reach her water cup, she can’t quite, and the straw just spins around. You move it slightly closer. “Here, let me help you.”

“I can do it,” she protests, before you lift the cup for her, and put the straw to her lips.

“I know, but just let me help you,” you reply, softly. “Just this once,” you add, and she finally relents.

You balance on the edge of the bed, careful not to knock her while she drinks.

“Karma, will you stay?” even without her scratchy little voice, the way she’s looking at you with the saddest of puppy eyes, you’d say yes to anything. You hate seeing her look so frightened and unsure when it’s so easily fixed.

Your reply is quick and simple. “You don’t even have to ask, Aims.”

She just manages to smile. Next to her eyes fluttering open for the first time that’s the best thing you’ve seen in weeks. You kick off your shoes, shake your hair free from its ponytail, leaving the tie on your wrist, and carefully lie next to her. You hope Brenda’s not on the night shift. She’ll kill you if she finds you like this. It’s difficult to fit on the bed with her, because she has extra pillows to rest her arm and her leg on, but your comfort is secondary right now. In the end, you’re lying on your side, with your arm curled around above her head. To you, it’s pretty warm in here, but she’s shivering slightly, so you pull up her blankets, and carefully take her good hand in your own, squeezing it.

“You scared the shit out of me today,” you say, idly stroking her hair with your free hand. “Don’t do that again. Ever!”

“I scared me,” she’s close enough to whisper now.

She’s close enough in fact, you can feel the soft warmth of her breath on your skin. It’s still kind of quick and shallow, but still a relief to feel it. You move a little closer, hoping she might get some body heat. She lets out a little whimper, her eyes barely able to open, but you take it as a bad sign and shift back a fraction, as much as you can without falling off. It’s fine if you fall, you’ll just get a couple of bruises on your ass and a dented ego, but she’s so weak right now, you don’t want to think about what it’ll do it her.

“Go to sleep, it’s OK,” you say, gently, hoping to reassure her. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You have a free period in the morning, and a history test you haven’t even bothered to study for, so you’re pretty much skipping until lunch, and even then, you only feel like going to see Shane and everyone else to fill them all in on what’s happening with her. Right now, you could skip the whole day and it wouldn’t really matter to you at all.

“I wanna talk,” she murmurs, her eyes heavy, fighting to stay awake.

The hair stroking trick has done it’s magic, working to soothe her like it has since you were little girls and had to figure out something when you went to camp and Amy wouldn’t have a nightlight to make her feel safe. You make her feel safe now. Sometimes you wonder if the nightlight made any difference at all.

“We can talk tomorrow, you need to rest,” you reply, soft, but insistent.

She won’t get better if she doesn’t rest.

“I missed … so much.”

“ _Sleep._ ” you say, slightly firmer, not wanting to startle her too much.

Her eyes drift closed, and you reach up to dim the lamp above her bed slightly. Lucy and the other nurses will have enough light to see when they come to check, but she’ll sleep better under it. To your surprise, you let out a yawn, blinking to keep yourself awake.

“Night, Amy,” you whisper, stroking her face gently, careful not to touch the graze on her jaw that’s still healing.

At least the bruising is lessening now, and the stitches from the deeper cut on her forehead have dissolved. For a while she looked like she’d been in a boxing ring on the losing side and it was hard to look at her without flinching.

“Goodnight, Karm,” comes her whispered little reply.

In that near dark, closer to her than you’ve been in weeks. you can’t help what happens next, wanting so much to ease her pain just a little. You brush your lips to hers, as lightly as you can, in a tentative goodnight kiss. You expect her eyes to snap open, that she’ll freeze or flinch because of her still healing lip, but she doesn’t. It’s a surprise when she kisses back a little, lingering slightly too long. You wonder if you’ve crossed some line, or taken advantage when she’s so ill. But then, she snuggles closer to you in response, and it’s all the certainty you need that everything’s OK. It just felt like the good thing, the right thing, and the most natural thing to do. Feeling your eyes get heavier, you stop fighting sleep and sink into it with her instead. You can think about the kiss and what it might mean tomorrow. All that matters right now is she’s safe and well sleeping in your arms when you didn’t know if she’d make it through the day. Compared to that, a kiss is nothing at all really.

Right now, Amy is all that matters. Amy has always mattered.


	4. Depression

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frustrated with the confines of hospital and the changes in her life, Amy reaches her lowest ebb, and Karma isn’t sure how to help her, or even if she’s the right person to do it.
> 
> _“No one really wants to face the fact that Amy’s struggling.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For general story notes see [chapter one](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6288724/chapters/14410576). This was an incredibly tough chapter to write for a lot of reasons, and while I realise it won’t be the easiest of reads, please hang in there. This is as dark as this world gets. I have to stay true to the experience of an event like this. To magic away or change or sugarcoat it wouldn’t be true to what I set out to achieve. Your continued support and love for this story is seriously amazing.

You’re late. You’re late. You’re late.

That’s all you can think while you’re running through the parking lot to try and get upstairs to Amy’s private room on the new unit. You didn’t even say goodbye to your dad because today of all days his piece of _shit_ van decided to die right between school and the hospital. Usually, the time in the car has been good, mostly because he puts on the oldies station and you both sing along, instead of being made to talk about your feelings like your mother is so insistent on doing. You’re fine with not talking about them, and your dad is fine too. He’s even fine that the singalong turns into a cryalong instead. He still keeps singing, making no attempt to question why Hall and Oates suddenly has you sobbing, and pulls you into a hug, shushing and soothing you like he did when you were small. It has the same effect it always did. You’re glad you can go to him for that without judgment and he’ll park up somewhere until you can get it together again. Even when you have, there are no questions then either. He just gets it, waving you off with a hug and well wishes for Amy because he doesn’t want to intrude or tire her out too much.

There was no crying or hugging today, you’re just pissed.

Honestly, you could've walked here faster. It’s just the icing on the cake of the crappiest of days. You had to endure busy work during detention with Mr Seely for your “outburst” – his words, not yours – and you’ve been railroaded into seeing the school counsellor Mrs Garcia, so you can work through your “anger issues.” Oh, and they’re making you pay for the damage you caused, because somehow everyone’s offended you ruined their gaudy, disgusting memorial display for Amy that was comprised of a photocopied, outdated yearbook photo that Amy _hates_ , gas station flowers, and tea lights on sale from Target.

Fuck Seely. Fuck Garcia and her coping methods. Fuck the memorial. Fuck everything.

Amy needs you. Amy needs you more than ever. It’s five, no _six_ weeks since the accident – the time is fuzzy in your head, hours have merged into days, days have merged into weeks without your notice. It’s getting harder to see empty seats in class and around the dinner table. The absence of her, this _lack_ is everywhere. You can feel it. You feel it in the gossip and the whispering that’s going around school about how Amy Raudenfeld nearly died and Karma Ashcroft is totally overcompensating because they were fighting before Amy got hit. Maybe you are, but maybe they don’t know how it hurts you to see her like this, so angry, and lost, and in pain because now the sedatives are gone and the painkillers aren’t doing what they were before, and all she can do is feel it, and endure it, and try not to let it swallow her whole. It’s a different pain you’re feeling compared to her, but it’s still pain; a strange heavy pressure that only lifts when you visit her. But even that isn’t the same. Medically, she’s improving, the room change says as much; her wounds are healing, the chest tube is gone, her cast is off – her thin, thin arm still resting at all times on a pillow – but mentally? It’s a completely different story. Amy doesn’t really talk and when she does, she’s just saying what she thinks you want to hear. Back at the house, you keep walking in on conversations between Hank and Farrah that spontaneously stop as soon as you come into the room and you found a printed list of therapists contact details on the desk in Farrah’s office that she was quick to hide.

No one really wants to face the fact that Amy’s struggling. Least of all you.

She’s _really_ struggling and you don’t know what to do. Moving her here is meant to be a sign of her progress, of something better, and it is, because the machines are gone and she doesn’t need oxygen now. But it’s not better too, because she’s still on fluids and this weird liquid food because she’s not eating, and not sleeping, and she’s just … not. Worse still, it feels like you’re not enough anymore either. You don’t have the limitless energy to see her through this. Every time you go in that room and see her in the bed all pale, small, and fragile, the less she seems like Amy. The less she seems like the girl you kissed weeks ago, soft and sweet in the hope it would soothe her and tell her everything you couldn’t say. It feels redundant to try and think about that now. Silly, even, when Amy’s dealing with all this. Every day, you hope she’ll look a little better, but every day, she seems to look worse. When everyone visits they bring her things to cheer her up like always, but nothing really helps. You know the smiles she has for everyone are fake. They never reach her eyes. You know she’s not really eating, and that Shane eats more of his special delivery doughnuts than she does, taking the tiniest bites, like a bird, if she really eats at all. You miss the Amy that was always hungry, sugar-obsessed. You miss the Amy that wasn’t swallowed up by her clothes because she’s skin and bone now, angular. Her softness is gone.

You miss her. You miss her. You miss _her_.

Sometimes, when you’re waiting in the disinfected, thick silence of the elevator like sardines in a can with other visitors and nurses and sometimes doctors, you think that maybe this is all some elaborate dream, and soon you’ll feel the kick, just like Dom Cobb said, and you’ll wake up. What you think that new reality will be depends on your mood. Sometimes, you imagine it’s been you in the coma all this time, and you’ll wake up to find your parents and Amy and Zen hovering over you with tear-stained faces of relief. Other times, darker times, you imagine that all of this has been in your head, these weeks, this purgatory, and Amy died. Amy died weeks ago, and it’s all been a figment of your imagination because you’re so desperate to cling on to her.

It’s the kind of thing that makes you wake up in a cold sweat, screaming because you don’t taste blood in your mouth, you taste soil, thick and dark and earthy, suffocating you. When you end up staying over at Amy’s, Lauren’s always the one to comfort you until it’s somewhere between night and day and you finally fall asleep, or you finally stop crying. Sometimes, you wake up together, clinging to each to each other. Sometimes Lauren cries too. You don’t talk about the nightmares and the crying, or the clinging. You don’t talk about anything really. The house is closer to the hospital, and even though it’s strange sleeping in Amy’s bed without her actually being in it, you feel closer to her somehow. She feels less far away than when you’re in your own bed even though that distance is only a matter of a few streets.

You stall at the double doors that separate you from Amy’s unit and check your reflection in the glass, patting the pocket on your backpack to make sure you can still feel the new beanie hat you got for her is in there. She has quite the collection now, complete with superhero ones from Felix to combat how awkward and strange he feels when he visits. You went around the mall with Shane on Saturday before your visit to pick another in the hope of cheering her up, but you forgot to give it to her then. She’s self-conscious about her hair and the still-healing scar on her head from the surgery. It’s not vanity, not really, Amy’s not like that, but more how frightened she is by her own appearance. How _different_ she looks. How unlike herself. Most of the visit was taken up with tears and frustration that Micah, her physical therapist had come in again, and they’d tried to get her to stand, again, and she threw up as soon as she was upright on the bars in the therapy room … again. Ever since, she’s been terrified to try anything because of the pain and the nausea. She won’t even do the hand exercises to get her strength and movement back.

She hasn’t left the room for anything but x-rays since they brought her down here almost two weeks ago. In fact, she’s barely left the bed.

You wave your hellos to Kristen who’s taking care of her today while Lucy is off. Farrah raged like you’ve never seen and played her “do you know who I am” card to get Lucy down here with Amy in the hope she’d pick up, but truthfully, it hasn’t made much difference. You just wish you could get through to her and find out why she’s behaving like she is, or feeling what she is.

Except, someone’s beaten you to it.

Turning the corner to Amy’s room, you can hear a familiar yelling. It’s Lauren, in full swing, like you haven’t heard her in weeks. Everything and everyone has been quiet and muted, like someone turned the colour and volume down in your lives. You rush to the door, hand hovering over the handle, leaning up to peer through the glass to get a look. It is Lauren, breaking her self-imposed rule to come and visit when she knows no one else is coming. It’s still a lot for her to be here, the place makes her skin crawl. She’s mad, DEFCON 1 mad, with her hands on her hips looking like she’s going to explode any second, and Amy’s just there, looking at her, taking it, just like she did when you argued at the party. Your immediate reaction is to want to run in there and shut it down because Amy doesn’t need this stress and upset, but then, it finally registers what Lauren’s saying.

_“You can’t carry on like this Amy, you just effing can’t OK?”_

Amy stays silent, blinking back tears.

_“Screw this! I’m tired of people tiptoeing around you. Whatever you’re dealing with, you need to talk about it. I watched my mother rot in a hospital bed. I’m not watching you do it too!”_

Lauren pauses, swiping at her face angrily. You don’t know when she started crying. Amy leans forward, or tries, flinching, hand to her ribs. Lauren’s never really told you about Noelle, but you’ve heard little snatches here and there in conversation, you just never knew how badly it affected her until now.

_“The cancer took away all her choices, Amy. You have choices. You can do this. I know you’re in pain and you’ve been through so much, and I fucking hate this because you’re my sister. But, if you don’t try, you’ll never leave this room, and you’ll never get to Clement, and I can’t watch you like I watched my mother. Neither can Karma.”_

The Clement line stings you all.

Amy knows now, the truth is out. The memory of her throwing the packet at Farrah and screaming at her to get out until she went hoarse and collapsed in a coughing fit is still painfully fresh. She was so angry. So incredibly angry that so many decisions had been made for her, and about her, all without her consent.

_“This is breaking her heart. Can’t you see that?”_

Still nothing except for a long, vehement shake of her head because she can’t actually speak right now. Well, she couldn’t speak a few days ago, now you think it might be selective mutism, to add to everything else she’s selectively _not_ doing that keeps you (and probably her) awake at night.

Angrier now, Lauren moves closer to the bed, hands gripping the foot of it tightly. You think that if Amy were well, Lauren probably would’ve slapped her by now, just to get her to snap out of it.

_“She fucking saved your life! You know that?!”_

No. No. No. Amy can’t find out like this.

You burst through the door at the precise moment you hear Lauren yell, “She and Shane did CPR on you in the street. If it weren't for them, you’d be dead.”

“Lauren, shut up!” you yell. “Shut up!”

You throw down your backpack instead of hitting her. The thud when it happens isn’t nearly as satisfying you hoped.

She glares. “No, I’m tired of not talking about this!”

“Please don’t,” you beg, barely able to look at Amy.

For a moment, all you can see are your hands pounding on Amy’s chest, hear your voice, ragged and heavy with emotion, counting repetitions along with Shane, and the feel pushing air from your lungs into Amy’s when you and he swapped places, frantic, terrified, desperately trying to keep her alive.

It’s the kind of thing you’ll never shake.

“She needs to know. She needs to know this isn’t just about her pain, Karma!”

“Don’t,” you warn, blocking Amy from her view.

It doesn’t work.

“You were _dying_ , you were dead and they got you back and now you’re just going to waste away? Well _fuck_ that! I’m not letting it happen, Karma isn’t, and mom sure as hell won’t!”

“Enough!” you cry brokenly, tears filling your eyes.

“Is that true?” Amy croaks, her throat still painfully raw.

It’s not what you expected her to say. You expected her to say – scream – about how you don’t understand and you’ll never understand because you’re not the one going through this, because that’s been her default answer for a while now. To hear something different is strangely comforting. You don’t really know what to say in response, or where to look, going back and forth between Amy and Lauren because you could fucking _kill_ her right now. She’s angry, you’re all angry and worried about Amy, but there was no need for her to find out like that. You wanted to tell her in your own time.

“Shit, I didn’t mean …” Lauren tails off, backing away from the bed, damage done.

You whirl around to look at her and she’s horrified.

This time, you’re doing the glaring. “Well done,” you snap, and she shrinks away further.

“I didn’t mean it!” she says quietly, moving closer to the bed, apologetic.

Now you feel terrible.

“Is it true?” Amy repeats, voice straining.

You move closer to the bed with Lauren in some strange show of solidarity, taking Amy’s good hand in yours when you nod slowly and say, “Yes, it’s true,” in the gentlest way possible.

She just stares at you both, silent. You can practically feel Lauren’s guilt radiating off of her. You can feel your guilt too. If only you’d held back, held off, held your tongue, Amy wouldn’t be in this bed. OK, so you probably wouldn’t be talking to each other, but at least she’d be well, and not fighting against her own body to do things she used to take for granted.

“You guys need to talk,” Lauren announces, still quiet, still reeling. “I’ll go.”

You’re nodding before you realise it, letting go of Amy briefly to hug her in apology. Things are bad enough without fighting and stupidness. Lauren’s never going to be your biggest fan after all the shit you put Amy through, but she’s one of few people who really get what you and Amy mean to each other. You both love her. Differently, but you love her all the same.

When Lauren pulls away to reach for Amy, hugging her as lightly as humanly possible, you can see that love too. She whispers something in Amy’s ear that you don’t catch, but Amy smiles briefly at it, and they look at each other for what feels like a really long time.

“Call me when you want a ride back?” Lauren offers, glancing over at you and you nod. “Sorry I yelled,” she continues, turning to Amy again. “but you needed some Lauren, OK? She’s too soft on you.”

“Stop talking about yourself in the third person,” Amy comments with a wry smile. That sounds a little more like the Amy you both know. “You pretentious ass.”

“Ah, there she is,” Lauren says, and the mood of the whole room shifts. Suddenly you can breathe again. They hug once more, and you can’t help but feel glad she went off on her. It needed to happen. There are a lot of conversations Amy needs to have that aren’t happening, and it’s just adding to her frustration.

It has to be done. You know that. It’s a necessary evil.

“Text me or whatever, if you need anything.,” she reminds you, pointing in a way that manages to be caring and threatening at once. “Both of you.”

You barely get to nod before she’s whirling around picking up all of her things, loaded up like a packhorse, with a huge bag on her shoulder. After all that craziness, and noise, and flurry of activity and affection, she’s gone, and it’s just you and Amy again. Together and alone, alone together, in the silence.

You stay where you are, feeling a little like a spare part until Amy pats the bed and motions for you to sit. It feels important. You balance carefully on the edge, making sure she still has enough space to be comfortable.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asks, and the look in her eyes is so earnest, it almost hurts.

“How I could I?” you answer, looking up at the ceiling to keep from crying. The strip light above your head blinks.

You hear Amy take a breath, deep but still unsteady, like she’s going to reel off one of her big speeches, but she doesn’t, she just reaches for your hand instead, taking it carefully. There isn’t much she can say right now. Thanks for knowing what the hell to do? Thanks for not letting me die? There’s no Hallmark card for stuff like this.

“I never thought I’d be glad I did lifeguarding all summer without you,” you laugh a little, but it’s kind of hollow, and you’re on the verge of tears, fighting away the images of her on the asphalt that keep coming back into your head.

Amy squeezes your hand. “Me either.”

The way she’s looking at you says so much more than that. It seems enough for now, you don’t want to bombard her with too much information. After what just happened, you’re not sure she can take it. You’re not sure you can either.

“I’m sorry I’m late, I thought I was going to miss your physical therapy session with Micah,” you say, swiftly changing the subject. She looks relieved. “Traffic sucks.”

It’s a lie, but only a lie by omission. You don’t know what Shane’s told her, or what Lauren’s told her, or what social media has told her about school, so it’s better to say nothing of the mess with Kelsey, the corridor, and resulting block of detention.

“He’s coming soon,” she replies, tilting her head toward the clock.

She’s not looking forward to it. He’s a nice guy, fun even, and he’s been more patient with her than she has with him; her temper even quicker than usual, but today’s a big day. Today, there’s no throwing and catching or stretching exercises, like you’ve been helping with for the past week or so, dragging Amy grudgingly through the hour. Today, they’re going to try again to get her to stand and hopefully take a few steps before getting her on crutches.

“I brought you some things, I thought maybe they might make you feel a little better in the meantime,” you continue, briefly leaving her side to get your bag from where you dumped it.

It’s a strange assortment, but it’s so Amy that it makes you smile. Every time you’ve opened your bag today you’ve seen them all, and it’s just made you more and more anxious to see her. In the middle of the day, stuck in Reiner’s history class, you gave serious thought to blowing off the rest of the day, but Shane vetoed it, and you couldn’t convince Felix to give you a ride. You’re careful with what you bring, because for a while now things that exist outside these now very familiar four walls have begun to frustrate her. Like home is some distant land she can’t reach by plane, or train, and might never see again. And school is some place that speaks a language she doesn't have any knowledge of.

One by one, you get each item out, placing them on the tray table, where she can reach them. First, there’s a small pack of chocolate M&M’s. Sure, she’s not eating much right now, but you thought it’d be a nice gesture.

“They’re from the machine by the science labs,” you say, and Amy smiles a little. “I know the ones from downstairs suck.”

It’s stupid, you both know it. It’s essentially the same bag of M&M’s, but these ones aren’t tainted with hospital associations.

Second, there’s a charger for her iPod that you kept forgetting to bring, and some new headphones to go with it. You couldn’t find hers, even after you turned her room upside down to do so.

“They have little gel cushions on the earbuds and they’re easier to get in one handed,” you continue, holding up the package.

“Those are cool,” she replies, still kind of croaky. Somehow, you’ve mastered the ability of not wincing when she speaks.

Third, there are a bunch of t-shirts, sleep shorts, and a few sweatshirts that you’ve picked for her now she’s past the itchy gown stage and starting to wear her own things again. Her supply of band shirts is running low – today she’s wearing one of Hank’s Led Zeppelin ones, and it’s huge on her. Everything Farrah picks out she hates on sight because she hasn’t actually paid attention to what Amy wears since before you were in middle school, and keeps raiding the ‘girly’ half of her closet, bringing dresses. Sure, they’re more practical right now given her leg, but that’s not the point, they’re not Amy, so you have to swoop in and find the good stuff. You keep most of what you’ve brought folded up and put them in the little cabinet beside Amy’s bed. You leave one on the table though, making a huge show of unfolding it.

“I thought maybe this needed a come back?” you declare, shaking the shirt out to reveal the image on the front.

She beams, leaning ever so slightly forward when she says, “donut shirt!”

“You’re not you without that. Right?”

She nods, slowly reaching for water cup. You want to push it closer to her just to help, but you know she has to start using her right hand again, keep her fingers moving, so you hold back, waiting for the moment she might ask. She doesn’t of course, managing to grip the cup mostly successfully and takes a sip. It’s a small victory, but she looks so pleased you can’t help but be a little proud of her. The heavy fog that’s been hanging over her for so long now seems to be starting to lift, slowly but surely. You think maybe she just needs more time, and people seem to have imposed limits on her without notice – kind of like how people at school are starting to move on and your distractedness reads as odd because Amy’s no longer close to dying. Amy’s not close to living either, but they don’t seem too interested in that.

“Last but not least,” you begin, sitting back on the bed with the wrapped beanie hat in your hand, “is this … I saw it at the mall when Shane dragged me, and I thought you’d like it.”

You slide it toward her, hoping she can manage the thin striped paper. You didn’t use as much tape as normal just in case.

“Thanks.”

“You don’t know what it is yet.”

“You got it for me,” she counters, and you look away at the blanket, blushing. “I’ll love it.”

There’s a soft rustling and then you look up, seeing the blue hat in the middle of the paper. It’s Amy all over. No weird patterns, no lame cartoons, no labels or stupid phrases, just cable knit, the same colour of blue as the bottom of a swimming pool. The irony of the association isn’t lost on you.

“I like the colour,” she comments, and you finally make eye contact with her.

“Thought so,” you smile. It’s a small thing, but you like the fact that you still know her well even after everything that’s happened. “Want to wear it now?”

She nods quickly, and you both know why, but you don’t comment on it. She doesn't fight you when you lean over to put it on her either. She can move her right arm a little, but it’s still stiff and painful, which is what the physical therapy is about, beyond getting her up and walking, but the progress is slow, even slower when she’s been as stubborn as she has lately. You’re careful when she leans forward as much as she can, pleased to find her hair has that that silky softness back again, and you know that’s Lucy and Kristen’s doing. You pull it onto her head slowly, careful not to touch the left side of her head where it's shaved, stitches still yet to be removed, covered by a thin dressing. You can still remember her shock and her tears when she saw her reflection in your pocket mirror for the first time.

“Good?” she asks, touching her head cautiously with her good hand.

“Good,” you echo, smiling. “Totally works.”

“Such a look,” you both say at the same time, imitating Shane, dissolving into fits of laughter.

“Oww,” she protests, hand to her chest after a moment. “Don’t make me laugh so much!”

You pout apologetically. “Sorry.”

“I was beginning to forget what it looked like,” you add, quietly, and she puts her hand on yours.

This is the brightest you’ve seen her in a long time, and now you’re oddly thankful that Lauren reached the end of her rope today. In all honesty, your own rope got frayed weeks ago, and you worry about Amy more now she’s awake than you ever did when she was in her coma. The fact that you still have no idea who ran her down and the cops think he’ll probably get away with it really isn’t helping matters either. You’re trying to focus on helping Amy to recover and get past the complete injustice of what’s happened to her, but it’s hard sometimes, especially when all you have are recollections fuzzier than the camera footage screenshots they keep showing to you and Shane at various intervals. If you see ever another red Jeep Wrangler in your life, it’ll be way too soon. Not knowing who was behind the wheel that night is just another thing you all have to try and absorb to live with comfortably.

Lauren’s conversation isn’t the first you’ve eavesdropped on, but it’s the first that’s really moved her in a while. You’ve listened to Shane read her the school newspaper and have it take twice as long because he’s had to give too much context. You listened to Felix as he overcame his own fear about visiting her and watched as he pressed endless combinations of buttons on the controller on Amy’s behalf when he brought along some ancient video game they’re both obsessed with. She nodded and smiled in all the right places, but you knew she wasn’t really _there_ with all of you, not even when you read _Mrs Dalloway_ to her in the hope it might bring her some peace. The prose usually soothes her, and you thought it would ease things until she could get more pain relief. It didn’t. You knew something was very wrong when she tolerated Liam painting the cast on her leg without comment. It’s a copy of Van Gogh’s ‘Starry Night,’ and it took him forever, and it looks all kinds of beautiful. No one’s really sure why he did it because he’s already bought gifts, but maybe you think he wanted to feel useful and show her that he really cared.

It’s the first time you believe him. It also feels like the first time he’s done something without agenda. Whatever was between you, it’s not there anymore, and you’re getting to be something like friends. He’s stopped seeing you as a target, and Amy as an enemy. It’s a shame you all had to suffer so much for it to happen.

Farrah tells you you’re the one that cheers Amy up, but you’re not so sure. _Cheer_. What an obnoxious word. You hate it. You hate that more than any other right now, but the words ‘strong’ and ‘brave’ are tied for second. People keep telling you that too. How strong and brave you are, how strong and brave Amy is. Yes, she’s strong, and she’s beyond brave, but it’s all a facade, and you know exactly where the cracks are forming. You only hope you’re fast enough to help her seal them over.

There’s a knock at the door and you both look up to see Micah peeping around. “Are we good to go, ladies?”

You turn to look at Amy, seeing that her smile has quickly faded.

“I have a good feeling about today,” he continues, bringing in a wheelchair to transport Amy to the therapy room.

“Me too,” you offer, and Micah looks over, clearly grateful.

“That’s the spirit, Karma. That’s the energy we want on Team Amy tonight!” he declares, patting you on the shoulder.

She makes a face at the Team Amy comment, but seems a little more receptive than a few days ago. He’s so positive and empowering, it really should be nauseating, and even though you know it drives Amy insane, she needs his brand of treatment right now. Everything has been so unrelentingly bleak for her, so without end, you’ll take anything that helps her to see the light at the end of the tunnel. Right now, that light takes the form of a six-foot guy in scrubs and sneakers who looks like he should be on a football field.

“Let’s do this,” you encourage, and Amy nods nervously.

You move off the bed so you don’t get in the way, happy to listen while he fires off questions about how she’s feeling and motions to her, says, “nice hat” and it makes her smile. You’re glad because a few moments later it’s gone again, and you can see struggling instead as Micah helps her transfer from the bed to the wheelchair without putting any weight on her bad leg. It’s hard not to want to help her yourself, but you know you really can’t right now, so you end up shifting nervously from foot to foot, finally busying yourself with grabbing Amy’s hoodie and the juice from her cabinet so you don’t end up staring at her.

“I can’t,” she says, brokenly.

“That is _not_ in my vocabulary Miss Raudenfeld!” he argues, helping her to support her weight.

You hear her heave a huge breath, shaky as she briefly stands, and somehow, she’s off the bed and into the chair. By time she’s there, her face is stained with tears.

“See, there we are. Progress.” Micah assures her, and she nods. “You did a lot of that without me.”

He’s learning her limits now, how far he can push before she’ll break and lose her temper. He’s talked with you out of her earshot about how she used to be, whether she could run fast, if she could throw well, that kind of thing, cross matching it with the same kind of stuff from Hank and Farrah because he needed a baseline, and because he knows his job, but you know Amy. He needed to know Amy Before, so he can get her toward becoming Amy After, and get her out of here. Though he never used the words, you know it's all about whether Amy has deficits now following her brain surgery – that’s still so strange to think about – because you’ve watched them test, and prod, and poke, and you’ve heard them talk in hushed voices when they think you’re sleeping in the chair next to Amy’s bed, and you’ve googled enough in the dead of night, unable to sleep at all, ending up understanding more than anyone.

“Karma, can you be my glamorous assistant and get the door?” he asks, motioning toward it.

“Sure, sure,” you reply, needlessly, rushing toward it, almost tripping over yourself to finally be useful to her. “I got this.”

You end up doing a lot of door opening as you all progress down to the therapy room and there’s another long trip in the elevator, that somehow creaks even louder than before. Micah passes the time by alternating between talking to the other nurses with you in the elevator, and going to other floors, and whistling Pharrell songs. All the while you glance down at Amy, making sure she’s OK, sad that Hank and Farrah couldn’t be here for this. It’s just you until Hank gets here, and she’s tied up at a speaking engagement in Dallas she couldn’t cancel, so you’re trying to remember every little thing for when you tell her how the session went later on. Being here for Amy has finally let Farrah see how much she means to you.

Micah and the other therapist Adam set up the walking bars in the middle of the room. He’s the good cop to Micah’s bad, the comic relief that keeps Amy going once Micah’s tough talk gets her motivated in the first place. You stand back, waiting with her to keep from getting in their way, putting down the hoodie and the juice on table behind her where a thick file of notes sits. Hers. She’s quiet now, more nervous about being in here than you’ve ever seen her before, her good leg bouncing with nerves on the wheelchair’s footplate. Wordlessly, you kneel down next to her, place your hand on her knee, and immediately it stops.

“You can do it,” you assure, gently.

“I’m scared, what if I fall on my face?” she asks, panicked.

“Then we’ll get you back up,” you reply, simply, even though you know it’d be far from simple.

“Sounds easy when you say it,” she comments, quietly, putting her hand on yours.

“You can do this. I know you can. You’re doing so well.”

“She’s right,” Micah cuts in, looking between you both. “You ready?”

“I think so,” she offers, hesitant, and then more certain when she turns to you and adds. “I’ll try.”

“That’s all you need to do,” you whisper, squeezing her hand again before standing.

“OK, so,” Micah starts, arms folded. “This is what we’re gonna do. We’re gonna go to the bars, then Adam and I will help you to stand, get you oriented, and we’ll give the bars a try OK?”

She nods, clearly nervous. “OK.”

“Then, Karma’s gonna go stand right in the middle. A friendly face.”

“A less ugly face,” Adam jokes, and it breaks the tension. There’s laughter in the room. Nervous laughter, but laughter nonetheless.

“What he said,” Micah replies, jabbing him playfully.

“What if I throw up again?” she asks, when they get closer, flanking either side of her chair.

“We have many party hat sick bowls!” Adam assures, wheeling her closer and she looks to you again for comfort. “We’re prepped!”

You smile at her, walking to the bars and standing where Micah instructed.

The next few moments seem to unfold in horrible show motion. Micah and Adam guide Amy to standing, slow and careful, she clings to them tightly, terrified, and you grip the walking bars, to brace yourself, eyes tight shut to keep from looking at her, silently praying she won’t turn green and throw up everywhere because of all the blood rushing to her head like she has every other time she’s been upright.

“That’s a girl, nice and slow, back straight,” you hear Micah say, surprisingly gentle.

“Hey, you’re taller than I thought you were!” Adam comments, trying to lighten the mood.

Finally, you risk opening your eyes, barely able to comprehend what you’re seeing. With Adam and Micah’s support, she’s standing, shaky, but standing for the first time in weeks. You don’t know how you keep from running to her and hugging the hell out of her right then.

“Karma,” Micah calls out, briefly looking around you. “How about you come a little closer.” You take two even paces forward, watching for his reaction. “That’s great.”

You lock eyes with her, and watch and wait, while they help her get into position on the bars.

“Remember,” Micah states. “Back straight. No weight on your left leg, OK? Small movements, no running, no flips and tricks, Miss!”

“Baby steps,” you comment, just to show extra support.

“Yep, you got it,” Micah replies, full of that same gratitude as earlier on.

You can do this Amy. You can do this Amy. You’re stronger than you think you are.

That’s the only thing filling your head as you keep watching and keep waiting, gripping the bars tighter as you watch her, willing her forward, determined not to look away this time. She’s standing up now using the same support, Micah and Adam still nearby.

“Ready?” Adam asks, kneeling in front of her to help position her bad leg, making sure she uses her good one to lead off from.

She just nods stiffly, adding a short. “Uh-huh.”

“Take your time,” Micah reminds from her other side, “This isn’t a race. No prizes for who does it quickest.”

You never felt so helpless as now, seeing her so unsteady, swaying slightly, as she struggles to balance. Her arms are shaking under the strain of carrying her own body weight. It makes you think of Mr Brady’s English class, and his love of Greek myths. Now you know what a herculean effort truly is, you’re seeing it. Amy’s there, determined, gritting her teeth, putting every ounce of energy she has into taking a single step.

It hurt before, to see her in such pain, but you don’t have the vocabulary for this. This isn’t pain. It’s something else, something altogether more horrendous. She’s being tortured in the name of doing good. You’d give anything to rush to her and pull her into your arms, take her weight, and hold her, and soothe her, and kiss away her tears, but you can’t.

Doing that wouldn’t be right. Doing it wouldn’t be fair. Micah said as much when he threatened to kick you out of the very first therapy session she had. If you gave in every time she cried out in pain or yelled and called you everything under the sun, she’d never learn. She’d never get better. She’d never be Amy again.

And then, it happens. She moves forward.

It’s a tiny, faltering movement, barely anything at all, but it matters. Her face contorts in pain when she swings her bad leg minutely forward, only just able to keep it off the floor with Adam’s help.

“I can’t do any more,” she cries out, starting to sob.

“But you’re up, you’re doin’ it!” Micah reminds her. “You’re doin’ great.”

“Dr Bryant and Dr Davis are gonna be so pleased with you. This is exactly what they need,” Adam jumps in, trying to bolster her confidence.

“It hurts too much!” she protests, head bowed, starting to crumble, and your heart clenches.

Still, you don’t look away, even when that looking involves watching her tears fall on the linoleum. You don’t know what to say. She doesn’t want some pathetic platitude right now. She wants you to be as honest as you can be. People have lied to her enough. Yourself included.

“Amy, Amy, look at me,” you call out to her, waiting for her to lift her head. “You can do this. I _know_ you can. Just one more step,” you pause, watching as she takes a steadying breath. Behind her Micah motions for you to move closer to them, so she has a shorter distance to go. “Just try.” She nods, slowly, fighting back tears as you move one pace forward and then another. “For me?” you encourage.

Maybe it’s a cheap shot given your past, but it’s all you’ve got. Just like Lauren yelling at her before, you’re doing it out of love. It’s the toughest kind of love, but it’s the kind that endures. Unconditional.

The distance between you is much less now, but you know she has to start somewhere. She has to come out of one of these sessions feeling better about her recovery, not just exhausted, frustrated, in desperate need of pain relief. She’ll still be those things later on tonight, but you want her to have the tiniest bit of hope that she can get through this, and not just because you’re standing with her through it all.

“OK,” she replies, shakily.

“OK,” you echo, holding her gaze, your hands out just in case she should fall.

This time, there’s no more encouragement from Micah and Adam to get her going again. You block them out, focussing entirely on Amy, and they recede in your mind, until feels like they’re not there at all. Like they’re gone and it’s just you and Amy again. Together and alone, alone together. The heavy silence is only punctuated by Amy’s breathing, laboured, as she moves closer to you incrementally through sheer force of will.

You can do this Amy. You can do this Amy. You’re stronger than you think you are.

Then, she’s right in front of you, unsteady, exhausted, desperate, and she collapses in your arms, clinging to you, so close you can feel her heart beating out of her chest. Smiling through the tears streaming down your faces, elated, you hold her close, hand on the back of her head, stroking, soothing, knowing you’re the only thing keeping her upright. Micah and Adam’s congratulations and praise fly over your head.

“I got you, I got you,” you assure her, whispering in her ear, holding as tight as you can while Micah wheels the chair towards you both. “It’s OK, you’re safe.”

You’ve never meant anything more.

“I did it!” she declares, her relief palpable, bursting into fresh tears. “I did it!.”

“I knew you could,” you breathe, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek. She lets out a whimper at it. “I knew it. You’re gonna do this. You’re gonna be OK. You’re gonna make it.”

You’ll make it together.

When Adam comes to your side, taking Amy’s weight, you’re bereft at the contact. Your whole body seems to sag, deflating, and the enormity of the moment – the miracle – that just occurred blindsides you all at once. You totter backwards a little, reaching for the rail yourself, barely registering his sweet, “Good job,” because you’re watching her as she gets lowered carefully back into the chair, drinking the juice you brought greedily. Sweat beads her face, glistening under the fluorescent lights, but the hat stays in place, like some weird act of defiance.

“Thank you,” she gets out, between sobs, her eyes never leaving yours.

It sounds a lot like ‘I love you,’

Something’s been missing for so long now, you’ve been yearning for something as you’ve helped her through this horror. In that moment, in that busy hospital, in that crowded, stifling therapy room, you know you’ve found it in her.


	5. Acceptance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On Amy’s first night home from hospital, Karma reflects upon their journey together since her accident, and where their future might be headed.
> 
> _“Getting back to normal is the hardest part.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For general story notes see [chapter one](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6288724/chapters/14410576). So here we are folks, the final chapter. It’s my hope that brings everything to a close in this storyworld while still being true to the realism of a long recovery like Amy’s. Only you can tell me if I got that balance right. I leave it to your good judgement. A lot of people asked for a sequel to _My Way Home is Through You_ , and in a lot of ways, while being a story in its own right, that’s exactly what this one has been for me, touching on similar themes, albeit very differently. To me, they complement each other, they’re cut from the same cloth, if you like. Ultimately, I set out to write a story that questions what love means and what form it takes, how it connects people and how that connection can change, which I believe is part of what _Faking It_ strives to represent. This story would be nothing - seriously! - without the input and feedback from my creative partner in all things Karmy, @spasticandviolent, so thank you everything. Thank you to every single person who’s read, liked, given kudos to or commented upon this story. Your support and love for it has driven me to keep on writing when I thought the material was too tough to continue with. As a final gift, click [here](http://8tracks.com/lazarusgirl/for-every-lifetime) to listen to the fanmix I made to accompany the story. Until next time, fair readers!

She’s home. Amy’s actually home.

The days of shuttling back and forth to see her at the hospital are over. Her nightmare is over. Your nightmare is over. The _whole_ nightmare is over. It’s taken nine weeks to get her here, but you’ve made it. Together. 

Amy’s had the harder job, of course, and it’s still not over for her. She still has to come and see Micah every week as an outpatient for a while, and her cast still has to come off – Liam’s painting is a little less bright now, chipping, fading – and she’ll need a brace after that. Besides that, there are a ridiculous number of other appointments lined up with Dr Bryant and Dr Davis, but staying in the hospital was starting to make her antsy. Boredom had well and truly set in, and she didn’t need constant observation and care anymore. As far as they’re concerned, they’ve done as much for her as they can, and now all she needs is the support to continue the last little bit of her recovery.

Getting back to normal is the hardest part. 

She’s been eating better and sleeping better (but still not quite back to her old self yet). She’s better on her crutches too, but walking longer distances is hard, so she’ll have a wheelchair at school for a while – it’s a temporary measure that she’s grudgingly accepted – just to keep the peace with Farrah after the Clement blow-up. Outside that, she’s doing a lot better, and the last few weeks prior to her discharge have been less about being stuck in that _fucking_ room, and more about getting her up and around regularly, so the crutches are more a help and less of a burden. OK, so they’re still a _little_ bit of a burden, and she gets mad when she drops them (a lot of the time), but you’re happy to see her upright again. For most of that time, you’ve been chief pusher of her IV drip, coaxing her along the corridor, then to the cafe downstairs, and finally to the hospital gardens. She had to use the wheelchair then, beanie on her head and blanket on her legs to keep her from being cold because she’s sitting still. When the weather’s been good enough it’s been nice to sit out there with her and talk in the peace and quiet away from the noise of the unit. 

You’re both learning, renegotiating the terms of your …  whatever you’re sharing right now, and a lot of that learning has taken place while you’re both learning to do something else, whether it’s adapting to using crutches or pushing around a wheelchair without running into anyone. Though Amy’s certainly improving with her walking, you still _suck_ with the chair, crashing her into everything and almost sending her flying right out of the thing when you went down one of the entrance ramps too fast. Still, you’re laughing about things more, and that means you’re not crying about them, which is also cause for celebration. Not crying means you can talk about things instead of think about them. It’s a small thing, a shift in mindset, and you’re not sure if it’s all a result of things finally improving for Amy, burying yourself in your mother’s self-help books, or your sessions with Mrs Garcia during your free periods. Maybe it’s all of those things, or maybe it’s none of those things, you’re not really sure. 

Most of the conversations you’ve had, conducted while sharing earbuds, or coffee, or anything that’s not hospital food, have been about what you’d do when Amy got home. First, you talked about it in the immediate sense, like what she’d do on the first night, the first week, or the first weekend back. Later, you finally talked about the night of the accident; slowly, carefully, and sometimes tearfully explaining everything that happened and everything you and Shane did. She said she needed to know everything to make peace with not knowing who ran her down in the first place. You’re still no closer to the truth on that score than the night it happened. The cops have said the case is cold now, code for all of you to let it go and walk away, and that’s what Amy’s chosen to do. She’s made her peace with it, and you both agreed not to bring it up again. 

Last week, you got to talking about things other than home. She finally broached the subject of _that_ summer and what it’d done to your friendship. So much has happened since then, it feels like a lifetime ago, but that lifetime was long enough for you to be able to talk about what her leaving really meant, and how it made you both feel, without it descending into some huge screaming match. In fact, there was more crying than anything because of how stupid you’d both been. Amy needed to leave, and that need outweighed how much you wanted her to stay. For once in her life, she put herself first instead of you, and that was right. Holding it against her because you felt abandoned and betrayed was right too. It was a long conversation, but you think the end of it, the final words, ones that Amy nodded along with in agreement, are ones you need to remember when things get complicated again, but when are they not with Amy?

_“I think we both made mistakes. We both handled it badly, and I never realised how much we were hurting each other until the night of the accident. I think it’s been hard for both of us, but we’re here, we’re still friends, and I still love you. No matter what, we’ll always have that.”_

You didn’t qualify what form that love takes – you’re still kind of figuring that out in long, drawn out conversations with yourself – but the fact that you sat next to Amy on that hospital bench, as close as humanly possible, and she took your hand and held it for the next hour while you sat comfortably in silence, was the only thing that needed to be said. There are still things you need to talk about, but it’s safe to say a line has been drawn under that particular chapter of your lives, but in doing that, in clearing the air, it felt like other things became possible again.

It was cathartic. You feel lighter and happier than you have in months.

Here now, standing in the kitchen at Amy’s house, surrounded by Lauren, Farrah, and Hank as you help clean from Amy’s welcome home party, you don’t feel like you’re imposing or trespassing, like you have so many times before. Everyone else left a while ago, with Liam, Felix and Shane the last to go. Shane’s still kind of on your case because he witnessed an accidental goodbye kiss when his visit earlier in the week overlapped yours – Garcia’s therapy thing ran late – and he hasn’t shut up about it since. Both Felix and Liam keep throwing you these very knowing looks, and Lauren’s just irritated because you continue to dodge her when she questions you about what “your intentions toward Amy are” like you’re in in the middle of a Tennessee Williams play or an episode of _Dallas_.

You don’t _know_ what your intentions toward Amy are. Even Amy doesn’t know what they are. 

For now, Lauren seems happy with the ‘I don’t know’ answer, and she’s in the living room, debating with herself over whether to leave the huge ‘WELCOME HOME AMY’ banner up or take it down, while she chats with Lisbeth or Leila (you can’t tell which it is), and you’re on garbage duty with Farrah and Hank. He’s been slyly sneaking some of the leftover chips while Farrah’s not looking, grinning at you conspiratorially. He’s telling jokes and smiling again having spent most of the day snapping away with his camera to capture it all. Everyone’s smiling again, even Amy.

It feels comfortable. It feels right. It feels something like normal. 

Lauren didn’t plan for the party to be a huge thing, since you both thought it might be a little overwhelming for her, and she doesn't actually _like_ surprise parties, but it kind of blew up, and in the end, you both decided this one was necessary. Amy has too much to celebrate. The first time she had one – the first one you were invited to – was on her sixth birthday. Her immediate reaction when everyone from class jumped out wearing party hats was to cry and hide under the kitchen table. She cried until you went and sat under there with her, sharing a slice of birthday cake your mother made especially for her.

Though she was seriously close, she managed not to cry today, and she even wore a little party hat.

A surprisingly large number of people showed up. Shane’s partly responsible, as ever, because he made a Facebook page for it. After all the gawping gatecrashers from school were ejected, the nosy neighbours from what felt like a ten mile radius interrogated her and suffocated her with kindness, and the ton of food Farrah and your mother made for the occasion finally ran out, the only people left were you, Lauren, Shane, Liam, Felix, Vashti, and Lisbeth and Leila – who decided to liveblog the whole occasion for their twitter followers – your parents, Amy’s parents and her nana Joanie. Yes, Farrah and Hank are Amy’s parents again and you haven’t called them that since before sixth grade. It’s weird. Even weirder is the fact that Amy’s nana flew in a few hours ago, and she and Hank are actually getting along. There hasn’t been one withering glance or barbed comment in his direction all evening. You’ve stayed by Amy’s side the whole time, batting away questions when they got too much and just making sure she was OK, keeping her in food and drink even though she didn’t end up having all that much. 

You’re still kind of in nurse mode right now, because it’s been pretty big day for you all, but it caught up with Amy pretty fast. It’s early evening now, and she’s resting up in her room. You’re waiting out the last ten or so minutes before you can take her another dose of Percocet. Farrah has it under lock and key pretty much, terrified Amy’s going to overdose or get addicted or something. Clearly she’s been watching too many Lifetime movies because Amy has to be _dying_ before she’ll accept any form of pain relief.  She was practically climbing out of her skin before she’d let you come down here to get some. Of course, she took forever to agree to go and rest at all. Once that battle was won, she refused to entertain the idea of sleeping in the living room on the sofa bed or accept any other help to get up the stairs. You get it, she wants her own things and her own bed. She doesn't want to be the burden, the invalid, the sick person. She wants to be Amy again. When she almost fell from the fourth stair up, she had to admit defeat, finally letting Hank carry her up to her room while you followed behind with her crutches. 

Ever since you left her, mid _Orange is the New Black_ rewatch binge (it’s the fourth time, now, but it’s so good you don’t even care), you’ve been obsessively checking your phone for texts and/or listening out for any sounds in case she calls out for help instead. You’re trying not to worry so much, because she really is so much better, but it’s hard not to.

“Hey honey, are you OK?” Farrah asks, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder.

“I’m fine,” you reply, leaning back against the nearest cabinet. “Just a long day is all.”

“Tell me about it,” she laughs a little, reminding you of Amy in a way she never has before. “I’m glad you’re here for her,” she adds, suddenly, like she didn’t mean to say it out loud.

“I’m glad too.”

You share a look and it says everything both of you aren’t. 

“You’re welcome to stay over if you’d like?” she offers and it surprises you.

Your parents left a while ago, not questioning why you chose to stay behind, but honestly, you hadn’t really planned to stay much past eight. It’s already after that.

“Are you sure?” you blurt out, before you realise. You don’t want to impose. 

Amy still needs rest, and you both know full well when you’re together it’s hard not to stay up talking and watching even more stuff on Netflix. You love doing that, you’ve really missed doing that with her, but she’s not quite ready yet. Movie nights are something you’ll have to work up to; something you’ll make her work up to. She’s been doing so well, you don’t want to be responsible for her having any setbacks, even tiny little ones like being overtired and walking – or rather hobbling – around the house like a zombie the next day.

“I think Amy would like it if you did,” she shrugs. She lets out a little breath, like she’s deciding if she can say something. “Sweetie, you’ve always comforted her. You need each other,” you nod slowly, watching as she glances away sadly to look at Hank in the yard with Amy’s nana. You _have_ always comforted her, often, better anyone else was able to – Farrah included – and the whole needing thing? Well, you can’t argue with that either.  “Anyway,” she continues, steadier now, her sadness hidden. “You’ve been so good to her the least I can do is let you stay a few nights until she’s more settled. I already asked your mother, so you’re fine.”

“Thanks,” you start, cut off when you feel your phone buzz in your jeans pocket. It’s nice to see her name back on your screen again. Her new phone is a welcome home present from Joanie (via Farrah), fresh out of the box.

The first person she texted was you. The fact you were sitting right next to her at the time didn’t even matter.

“You’re very welcome,” she replies, sweetly. “No prizes for who that is, hmm?” she smiles then, moving off to the counter where the remainder of Amy’s chocolate celebration cake sits. Your mother’s contribution to the day. Amy’s favourite – non-lethal-Amy-friendly – cake in the whole world. “Don’t let her run you ragged,” she reminds you. 

You smile and nod, finally looking down at your screen. 

 

 **Amy** (8:43 PM):  
Where are you? :(

 **Karma** (8:47 PM):  
Kitchen. Almost meds time.

 **Amy** (8:47 PM):  
Thank god! Sorry for being clingy and weird.  
It’s just strange being up here alone when you  
can hear talking and stuff.

 **Karma** (8:48 PM):  
You’re not missing anything.  
Don’t you dare think about moving!  
I’m coming back up :)

 **Amy** (8:49 PM):  
You’re the bestest. I paused OITNB  
It’s your fave ep :D

 **Karma** (8:49 PM):  
You’re the best! x

 **Amy** (8:50 PM):  
You’re better. xx

 

“Ah, there’s that smile!”

Startled, you look up to see Hank leaning on the counter right next to Farrah. He’s pouring out bourbon and she’s counting out Amy’s painkillers, putting them on a tiny dish next to a tall glass of water on a breakfast tray.

“How’s the patient?” he asks, motioning to the phone.

“Impatient.” You laugh. 

He nods, the corners of his mouth just turning into a very Amy smile as he goes to the refrigerator for ice. “Sounds about right. She’s getting back to her old self.”

“I think so too.”

Just like with Farrah, a moment passes between you, and you don’t know what it really means. He’s not looking at you with fondness –  he’s always done that, he’s always liked you – this is different, like your being here means something different to what it did before. 

“Don’t have her out there too long,” Farrah says, motioning to Joanie still in the yard (it still feels weird saying that). It’s cooler now, she has a blanket wrapped around her legs. “Oh, and go easy on that bourbon. I don’t want her rolling drunk, not with Amy like this.”

Hank sighs. “Hon, it’s a little celebratory nightcap. Anyways, she’ll go up soon, and maybe you’ll relax, and stop trying to scrub the pattern off the countertop,” he continues, gently placing his hand over Farrah’s to make her stop cleaning. He squeezes it, just once, and then steps away, reaching for the glasses and taking them back outside.

She turns to watch him go, and you can just see the smallest of smiles on her features. 

It’s been a long time since you’ve seen them like this. Truthfully, your abiding memory of them during childhood can be neatly divided into two extremes: pre and post divorce. The first thing that comes to mind is either tagging along on Amy’s visits with her dad to the park, the movies, or to get ice cream after Farrah agreed to give him visitation rights, or sitting on the stairs with her listening to them scream at each other and hugging her while she cried well before the word ‘divorce’ became a part of your vocabularies. 

“Here, take up a slice to share,” Farrah says brightly turning back to you. She’s cutting you a huge slice of cake and placing it on one of the paper party plates before you can even argue.  

You’ve had so much of this today you think your stomach might be entirely composed of cake, but you don’t really have the heart to refuse her, and there’s no way Amy can eat it by herself right now. You move closer to Farrah, pocketing your phone, because the more you look at it, the less the quickly time seems to pass. Instead, you watch the huge clock on the wall behind her, willing the clock to tick over to 9. This last ten minutes have felt more like an hour to you, so god knows how Amy’s feeling all alone up there in her room. 

“Amy’s always telling me you can’t binge watch on an empty stomach.”

“It takes preparation,” you both say, simultaneously, mimicking her. “This should be considered a sport!”

You’re both laughing then, and you realise you haven’t heard her laugh in a long time. She’s the only person apart from you who laughs at Amy’s dumbass jokes _and_ her smart ones. If she were here now she’d be cringing at what Farrah just said, but you can’t help thinking it’s sweet. She’s trying to speak Amy’s language to find a way back into her life. Sure, they’re never going to be like you and your mother – for all her faults, she loves you to death – but it’s something. You’re kind of proud. 

When you glance up at the clock it reads 9:03, and you suddenly feel bad for letting the time slip by unnoticed when Amy doesn’t know what’s going on. You don’t like having to leave her up there alone. That’s the most difficult part of having her home you think. All that regimentation is gone. You don’t have morning rounds, the meal trolley, medication rounds, physical therapy sessions, or temperature and blood pressure checks from Lucy that broke up your and Amy’s day into tiny little blocks you could set your watch by. Within reason, Amy can do anything again. If you want to stay up until dawn watching OITNB, you can. She’s still taking a week before she comes back to school, and you’re cutting tomorrow because it’s a Friday. You have a test but you don’t care, not now that Amy’s back. You didn’t study for it anyway, and you can make it up. It doesn’t matter. 

“I better go, before she sends out a search party!” 

“Try not to stay up too late, OK,” she says softly, passing you the tray.

“We’ll try,” you reply. “We have a lot to catch up on though.”

That sounds like an excuse for still being up at 3 am, but it’s not. Not really. You do have a lot to talk about and now you have the time to do it. She nods, and just gives you _that_ look again, and you still haven’t learned what it means. She says nothing else, heading toward the living room, hopefully to stop Lauren from having a nervous breakdown during the clean up. Right now it looks like a glitter and streamers bomb blew up in there.

“Don’t think I’m above turning off the router like I did when you two were in middle school!” she calls, turning on her heels right before she gets through the door pointing at you for emphasis.

You know she doesn’t really mean it, it’s an empty threat. In the ten steps it took to get from you to the living room, the brash, steely, full-of-Southern-charm Farrah you’re used to is back. Amy always says that’s her show face, something she performs, and you never really knew what she meant. Until now. 

“OK, OK, I promise!” you reply.

“Hmm I believe you,” she declares, with a wry smile. 

You can still hear Lauren ranting about something on the phone, using the words “brand identity” _way_ too much for normal conversation, but at least it means she’s finally thinking about her YouTube again, which also means things are getting back to normal. You’ve actually grown to miss her beauty haul and styling videos with their horribly obvious product placement.  Parts of today haven’t been easy for her, because cards and banners and visitors remind her of things she doesn’t want to be reminded of. You’re both not a huge fan of how some of those visitors have treated Amy either. Earlier in the afternoon she said, flippantly, between sips of fruit punch, that having everyone here must make Amy feel like “some kind of effing circus freak just because she’s been sick.” Deep down, you know it was about Noelle more than Amy, but she’s right. Bruce should’ve been there her for during all this and he wasn’t. To his credit, he sent Amy a card in the mail and got flowers delivered to the house today, but he’s yet to visit. One of few people who hasn’t today in the seemingly endless parade of well wishers. OK, so his last visit when Hank was here at the same time didn’t go smoothly, but that’s no excuse. 

What happened in the past shouldn’t matter. It stopped mattering to you a long time ago. 

The last thing you hear before you go up the stairs is Farrah saying. “How in the hell do people make so much mess? Heathens!”

You take the stairs two at a time, careful not to spill any of the water in the process. Amy’s bedroom door is slightly ajar, just like you left it.

“Room service!” you call jokingly, giving the door a light tap.

When there's no answer, you kick it open with your foot, surprised to see the bedclothes turned back, and Amy nowhere to be seen. Her phone is on the nightstand where she always keeps it. Her laptop on the bed, screensaver scrolling. You put the tray down nearby on the nightstand and head for the bathroom, hoping you don’t find her in a heap on the floor because she’s fallen and can’t get up. You found her a like that a few weeks ago, crying out of pain and frustration, and you had to call for help. You reach the door at the precise moment Amy hobbles out, and you feel ridiculous for panicking even the tiniest little bit.

“There you are!”

“What? Did you think I left? Made a break for it out the window?!” she laughs, but it fades quickly when she sees your face.

“I thought you fell,” you shrug, trying to play it down. The speeding of your heart says otherwise.

Amy huffs out a breath of annoyance. “Karm, I’m fine. I just needed to pee and I couldn’t wait. Don’t worry so much, please?”

You sigh. That’s easier said than done. It really is. You just want to make sure she’s OK. It’s the first night after all, you don’t want something to happen that sends her right back there when she barely left.

“I only just got you back,” you say, before you even realise. _Fuck_. You didn’t mean to say that out loud.

“And,” she starts, breathing laboured as she slowly heads back across the room toward the bed. “I don’t plan on going anywhere anytime soon, OK?”  

You nod, knowing she’s right, shadowing her a little while she hops along but trying not to suffocate her either. The worrying has to stop, and you should be enjoying this night for what it is: Time with Amy you never thought you’d get again. Possibly ever. She sits cautiously on the edge, trying to push herself back, but it’s still hard. Her right arm is still stiff, and she’s working to get movement back, so now she does need your help. Still, you remember what Micah said about being aware of her space and not overstepping. You can almost hear him now “she has to want the help before she can ask for it, Karma.” Saying goodbye to all the people that helped Amy was hard. Harder than you ever thought it would be. 

“Karm, would you mind? It’s just the cast makes my leg so heavy.”

“Not at all,” you rush up then, resting her crutches against the nightstand so she can reach them if she needs to.

She gives a nod to signal she’s ready. Carefully, you lift her leg, holding it at her ankle and the knee, like you saw Lucy and the other nurses do thousands of times. It _is_ really heavy, you have no idea how she manages so well on her crutches with it. 

“Motherfucker!” she winces, and you wait, still hating seeing her in pain. 

“Sorry, sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. It’s OK,” she puffs out a breath. “That still hurts so bad.”

You keep hold of her leg and wait while she settles herself against the pillows. It takes a little bit more shuffling and adjusting but you get there, finally able to rest her leg back on the pillow that supported it before she got up, just to give her some extra relief. Then, you cover her over, making sure she’s warm enough.  She’s wearing Farrah’s old Clement hoodie, but she’s still in shorts otherwise because of her cast. You don’t want her to get cold. 

“You good?” you ask gently.

“Good enough,” she replies, with a small smile. “Better now you’re back.”  

You pass her the tray and watch her face light up when she sees the cake next to the painkillers. “Your mom said we could share.”

“Oh, cool, she hates us eating food up here.”

“Guess she’s relaxing her rules a little bit,” you offer, carefully climbing across the bed to your side to sit with her, sliding under the covers. “She said I could stay over.” Amy’s brows shoot up in surprise. “She _invited me_ to stay.”

“Who is this pod person pretending to be my mom?” she asks, between huge gulps of water. She makes a face when she drops the pills in her mouth and swallows, shuddering. 

“Amy.”

“What? It’s true! She never does stuff like this,” she swats your arm. “Oh my god, that’s why it’s so cold! Hell froze over!”

“Amy!”

You’re both laughing then, big and full, resting against each other until you manage to stop, but then, you’ll just look at each other and you’ll start again. Every time it happens you can feel yourself getting lighter, see Amy getting happier. It’s such a relief. Back in the summer, when you were sitting up in the lifeguard tower, scanning the lanes, you never thought you’d get to have this kind of relationship with Amy again. In moments like this it’s easy to forget what she’s been through, what you’ve been through, what you’ve both been through together.

“I missed this,” you say softly, nuzzling into her neck. She doesn’t question it or fight it. She just puts her arm around you like it’s a completely natural thing to do. It was that way once, you just never thought it would be again. 

It feels nice to be this close to her again, actually next to her in bed with no wires and tubes in the way. 

“Me too,” she replies, quieter still, and you take her hand in yours. “Cake?” she offers, holding up the two forks with her free hand.

“Sure, you get dibs on first bite.”

She smiles, full and bright, angling her fork to take off a little slither.

“I get dibs on how many episodes we watch?”

“Deal,” you reply, holding up your fork next to hers and clicking it in toast before reaching for the laptop, tapping the trackpad to bring it back to life and pressing play.

Like always you sing the theme tune, duetting, stupidly out of tune, and laugh anyway, adding in sweet singsong goodnights when Joanie calls out as she passes to the guest room. It’s nice to have her here, and not just because she doesn’t call you Carmen anymore. She’s the second person to say how glad she is that Amy ‘has you in her life.’ It came as a surprise, because she’s never really addressed the whole Amy liking girls thing since the day Amy finally plucked up the courage to tell her. You were there, of course, on the crazy patterned sofa surrounded by Christmas lights and litres of eggnog, wearing the most _ridiculous_ holiday sweater. You can still remember how Amy’s voice shook, how her knee kept bouncing up and down with nerves the whole time.

That seems like a long time ago now, even though it wasn’t.

You watched OITNB then too, sneaking eggnog, snuggled up with Amy having added ridiculous socks to the ridiculous sweater. Doing almost the same thing now is like coolest security blanket ever, or a little safety net, easing Amy back into the real world, back into a living, breathing girl instead of a fragile doll. You’re guilty of that too, you know it, but she knows you’re only doing it all out of love. Deep down you know it now. Even when things got bitter, and ugly, and ruined, it wasn’t hatred that drove you to argue with her and cry because of her like you have. It was love. 

Being here with her now, just in her presence, that’s love too.

You stay like that for a while, drawing off little slithers of cake, sometimes for yourself, sometimes for each other, huddled close, still eating the cake and grinning like idiots when one of you drops some. You laugh even more when you witness Lauren and Amy go through a protracted goodnight routine through the wall like they’re on _The Waltons_. Lauren even says goodnight to you. When it gets to the part of the evening where she gifts you with an impromptu Taylor Swift concert you and Amy can barely breathe from laughing so much. When Farrah and Hank come up the stairs later still, a little drunk, shushing each other, you clamp your hand over Amy’s mouth to keep her from laughing. When you get like that, all it takes is one look at her, and you just dissolve into a fit of giggles. If you’re not careful, that router cord will get pulled and your Netflix spree will come to an abrupt end.

It’s been a long time since you’ve had this much fun.

When Amy’s hand gets tired you cut the cake for her and feed her a little, but this time she doesn’t fight you, she lets you do it. It’s progress of a different kind. The only thing between you is the laptop and Orson, newly installed. He’s been everywhere with Amy throughout all this – even to her x-rays and her surgeries. You know it’s the same teddy, you’re not dumb, but somehow, in this room, surrounded by Amy’s things, he looks different to when he would sit on her bed in that cold, sterile hospital room. Amy looks different too, a healthy glow is back in her cheeks, and her eyes look brighter. The spark is back in them. 

A lot of today has been about goodbyes, but right now, here with Amy, it feels like a new beginning of sorts. A fresh page, newly turned, and you can’t help but think about everything and everyone you’ve left behind to get there.

It took a long time to leave the unit, and it wasn’t because of the huge mountain of paperwork that Amy’s doctors needed to sign. There were lots of hugs and lots of tears with the other nurses and doctors who had cared for Amy throughout her time there, happy to see her up and around, doing so well. Even Brenda came up to say her goodbyes, and Dr De Luca was surprisingly emotional, giving her a brief hug instead of shaking hands. The last person you and Amy both needed to say goodbye to was Lucy. Amy flat out refused to leave until she got her first break, and Farrah had to go around with the candy and the thank you card for the staff on her behalf. You let Amy go first, watching as they embraced, teary-eyed, and Lucy smiled that mega-watt Lucy smile, telling her jokingly that she “never wanted to see her again”, and that Will said she “better keep working hard to get to Clement.” He couldn’t be there because of an emergency in the ER, but the fact that he gave her a message to deliver in the first place meant a lot to Amy, you know it. 

When it came to saying your own goodbyes, you couldn’t find the words. She wasn’t even meant to be looking out for you. Amy was the patient, but still, she took the time. She showed you a way of seeing clearly when it felt impossible. All that came out as you teetered on the edge of tears was “Thank you for everything.” It felt woefully inadequate. 

The car ride home was mostly silent. Farrah and Hank talked enough for you both, and Lauren had kept in touch with a barrage of progress texts. Even though you know Amy’s arrival was meant to be a good thing, a nice thing, you also know she was nervous too. Anxious about negotiating the front steps and the watchful eyes of the neighbours, flat out worried about what would happen once the support network at the hospital wasn’t there anymore. It scared you too – you think it’ll scare you for a while  and the only way you know to soothe her whenever she feels that way is to hold her hand. So, that’s what you did, from the moment she got into the car, sunglasses on to shield her eyes from the brightness, to the moment she left it, parked outside her house, with Lauren and Joanie standing as a tiny welcoming committee. Lauren rushed over so fast and hugged her so hard she almost toppled over. She did make it up the steps, with Hank offering support from behind. In the blur of hellos and moving of bags and presents, you found each other again, sitting with her in the kitchen while Farrah made coffee and opened the mail.

You didn’t need to ask her if she was OK, knowing when to answer for her when Joanie asked questions. You knew exactly when she stopped being afraid and when she let herself relax, letting out one, long breath of relief. When she turned to look at you, moments before the doorbell rang for the first time and Shane breezed in with Liam tagging along behind, all she said, quieter than she’s ever said anything was “I made it, huh?” awed and disbelieving. All you could do in return was nod, finally seeing Amy – your Amy – again for the first time in a long time. 

The credits are rolling for the umpteenth time when you look down at your and Amy’s hands, fingers twined. One of things you did before settling in up here was to cut off her hospital wristbands for her and sit with her as she put them in the box where she keeps all the others. There are eleven now. Twenty-two if you count the red ones for her allergies. It’s crazy to think of what she’s survived, and what you’ve survived with her. It’s even crazier to think you tried to fight the feelings of contentment you have now. You’re happy. Amy makes you happy. You make her happy. That hasn’t always been true.

You don’t want this feeling to be temporary.

Maybe it’s because she’s home again, maybe it’s because you finally feel like Amy’s forgiven you for what happened, or maybe what happened made you realise that life is short, but you finally feel ready to talk about what’s been going on between you ever since that kiss on the bed in the hospital. If you’re being really honest, that _something_ has been there ever since the gym kiss too, you were just terrified of what it meant. You’re not so afraid anymore.

“Karm?” she says suddenly, nudging you with her elbow.

You glance over at her. “Hmm?” 

“Thank you.”

She says it so softly, so simply, it makes your breath catch.

“You’re welcome. It’s just cake and Netfiix like every other movie night,” you shrug, deflecting. 

The cake is all gone now, tray sitting empty on the nightstand, and there are no more episodes left. She gives you a look you can’t quite read, and it has nothing to do with the low light in the room. 

“No, I mean, for everything,” she continues, earnestly. “You’ve been there for me when I needed you the most and I expected it the least.”

“I couldn’t do anything else. I couldn’t just leave you there,” you reason. There was no other option. You’ve never been able to turn your back on her and cut the ties that bind you completely. You’ve tried and failed spectacularly more than once.

“It means so much …” she tails off, struggling to find the right words. “You mean so much to me.”

Suddenly this isn’t about the hospital anymore. Your heart creeps up into your throat. 

“I know,” you reply quietly. “You do too.”

It’s a risk, but you move forward, moving Amy’s laptop and putting it on the floor. As soon as you do it, the feeling in the room seems to change. When you turn back to face her, Amy’s shuffling down the bed, burrowing under the covers. Instinctively, you copy her, moving closer, but this time you don’t take her hand. It feels too dangerous and too delicate. 

Almost every important conversation you’ve had in your life has taken place in this room or in this bed, wrapped up in her duvet. 

She swallows hard, her voice shaking when she asks, “Karma, what is this?”

Her question hangs in the air for long moments before you think of anything nearing an answer.  You're face to face, and there’s nowhere to hide. 

“I’ve been thinking about us a lot,” she continues in a small voice. “About how different things have become. About the kiss,” she pauses, gathering herself. “Sometimes there’s been nothing to do _but_ think, actually.”

You nod, surprised but then not, to learn how much you’ve still been on her mind.

Now isn’t the time for ‘I don’t know’ but they’re the first words that come to mind. At that moment, you Amy’s laptop screen brightens, screensaver interrupted by an iMessage notification, illuminating Amy’s face. You can see everything and she can see everything. Finally.

“I almost lost you. For good. And I don’t think I can do that again.”

That answer comes as a surprise to you both.

“You never lost me. Even when I was away, you were all I thought about,” she admits.

You jump in quickly, snapping more than you meant to, “Why didn’t you tell me?” 

“I couldn’t. I didn’t want to pressure you. I know you felt like that sometimes.”

“Once, for a while,” you shrug. “But not now.”

“So, how do you feel?”

“I feel like,” you fall silent, trying to find the right words. 

You’ll only get so many chances with her, and they’re diminishing. She can only survive rejection for so long, and you know you’re tired of being the reason she hurts. You’re tired of hurting yourself. You’re tired of denying and pushing down feelings because they’re not the kind of feelings you expected, or even wanted to feel.  

Every choice you’ve ever made in your life has been about being that ordinary teenage girl. You’re tired of ordinary. Amy is so much more than ordinary.

“I want to try.”

There it is. The most simple and the most complicated thing you’ve ever said. 

She just looks at you, blinking back surprise. “You do?”

A long time ago now, she said that you wouldn’t know what your love for each other really meant unless you tried. You were still confused then, still afraid of what that love meant and what it meant for the life you imagined. You were afraid to take take that leap with her. You were afraid of falling, but more than anything, you were afraid of landing. You were afraid of what would happen every day. You’re still afraid of all those things, but one fear outweighs all the others, and it’s already been tested: the fear of losing Amy.

“I want to try because, even though I realised I – we – can live without each other, I just don’t want to,” you take a breath to steady yourself, trying to gauge her reaction. Now you wish the light in here _was_ brighter. “I don’t want to go through my life never knowing what it’s like to be with you.”

“Karma, I –” 

“I know,” you jump in, cutting her off.  “It's fucking ridiculous that you almost had to die for me to see it, but I see it now.”

She’s looking at you with a mix of disbelief and confusion. If you misread this, it’s too late now. If you don’t say this, you’re going to explode.

“Karma,” she repeats, and it sounds different, unlike any other time she’s used your name. Ever. “I still love you.”

“I might be the most terrible girlfriend ever. I might suck and people will have questions and want to know the answers to all of this, but I don’t want labels and I know you don’t want everyone in our business making it into this _huge_ deal –”

She cuts you off with a kiss. Just one. Lingering. A full-stop on the rambling stream-of-consciousness that’s not getting any filtering on its journey from your head to your mouth. _Oh_. That’s not what you expected at all, and you expected a lot of things; including a screaming match because you said it too late and Amy didn’t care, didn’t love or couldn’t love you anymore. 

“It doesn’t have to be,” she says gently, her face still close to yours. “It can be whatever we want.”

As soon as she says it, you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

“Baby steps?”

“Baby steps,” she echoes, with a soft smile. 

Then, she closes what little distance is between you, pressing her lips to yours. It’s different to every other time. There’s no gym or poolside crowds, there’s no cheap beer clouding your judgment. There’s only you, Amy, and the soft but insistent pressure of her lips on yours. You reach forward, lifting your hands to cup her face, slowly deepening the kiss. You’re nervous, so incredibly nervous because you’re giving in, you’re _feeling_ this in a way you never let yourself before, tongue cautiously sliding into her mouth. As soon as it makes contact with hers, you gasp. Then, she pulls away, letting out a shuddering breath as she rests back against her pillows. 

“Was that too much? Did I do too much?”

For a second, you think maybe you’ve gone too far, but she’s smiling, looking at you in this sweet, awed way.

“No, I thought maybe it was too much for you.”

You both laugh then, glowing with embarrassment, and it breaks the tension. 

“Do you want to stop?” you ask, cautiously. There’s a gentle warm in your voice you only ever use for her. 

“No,” she smiles, shaking her head for emphasis. “No.”

Then, she surges forward, taking you by surprise 

“Hey, hey, be careful,” you remind her gently, seeing her flinch in pain. 

“I just want,” she stalls, frowning. “I’ve just wanted this for so long. I’ve wanted you for so long,” she frowns again, anger flashing over her when she finally says, “And now I can’t do it, I can’t show you how _much_ I want you.”

You know how much she wants you. Deep down, you’ve _always_ known and that was part of why you fought the idea of being with her for so long. You fought because she stirred that same boundless, deep-seated love and desire inside of you, and there was no outlet for it. You couldn’t even begin to find the words to explain it, but now you realise – belatedly – that you don’t even need to explain. You never need to explain with her.

“Baby steps, remember?” you say, moving closer to her.

She nods slowly, smiling, and it feels like forever until what little distance there is between you is gone, and she kisses you again, slow, and deep and passionate. 

Everything in you just gives, yielding to her, kissing back in a way you never have before, savouring every time her lips touch yours. There’s the fireworks, there’s the choir of angels. There’s the sonnets and the love songs, unravelling between her mouth and yours. This. Is. It. This is the exhilarating, all-consuming love your mother always told you about and said one day you’d find if you waited long enough. It’s been here all along. _She’s_ been here all along. 

“I wanted to kiss you like that forever,” she says breathlessly.

And then, you kiss her again, swallowing down her squeak of surprise. You wanted that too. You just didn’t know how much until it was happening. It’s better than anything you imagined, any dream that left you frustrated and in need of a cold shower. Real Amy beats Dream Amy hands down. Your subconscious can only fill in so much.

“I wanted to you kiss me like that forever,” you whisper.

You’re falling, not caring how or when you’ll land.  For the first time in your life, you don’t want to plan out the perfect future, because you don’t know what it will look like. You don’t know if Amy will get to Clement, or if you’ll take those community college courses Mrs Garcia talked about to fill up the time because you’re determined you and Amy start there together. You don’t know if you’ll even _be_ a music major anymore, not now you’ve met Lucy, seen the amazing work she does and how much she helped Amy. Maybe you could be someone’s Lucy someday. You don’t know what any of that future will look like beyond one thing: Amy will be with you when it unfolds right before your eyes. She survived and she has a future now. You have a future _together_. A future you fought hard to have.  

There’s still a lot to learn about what it means to love and to be in love with _her_. But for now, you’re happy just to stay in this room and just _be_. All you want, and all you need, is to kiss her and hold her and fall asleep with her, and wake up tomorrow knowing she feels the same as you do. It’s enough. Baby steps, right?

You’ve learned a lot of things since her accident. You’ve learned about her, about Lauren, and Farrah and Hank. About your parents. About Shane, and Felix, and Liam. You’ve learned things about yourself too. The one thing that stands out, right now as you sink further under the covers, pulling them around you and Amy, stroking her hair and gently kissing away the flickers of pain that cross her features as you move, is something you’ve always known but never really believed in before now. Love isn’t just a feeling. Love isn’t something you can force or try and win like a prize. Love is about more than candy, and flowers, and love songs. Love is about being there when those flowers have wilted and they’re dying and they need you to bring them back to life.

Love is more than just a word.


End file.
